


A Road to Safety or Ruin

by keire_ke



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/pseuds/keire_ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik should feel only anger when he thinks of the sky-pirates, of their exploits and disregard for laws. By rights he should be glad when one is caught committing a crime on Genoshan land, as it should give him some satisfaction to sentence the man to death. Shouldn't he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the moonstone beacon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the X-Men Reverse Big Bang, for [Eyhjiulei's heart-wrenching artwork](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v242/keire_ke/QTl0K.jpg). The prompt (which I interpreted... loosely):
> 
>  
> 
> _The drawing is about Charles tries to fake his death in order to get away from Erik._
> 
>  
> 
> _Next moment, Erik will bend over and kiss Charles' cold body in the coffin. (Yeah, a bit necrophilia but I want this so bad.)_
> 
>  
> 
> _Bonus: #1 Charles is a notorious (and really charming) sky pirate. (Raven is his partner, and Hank is his crew who is responsible for maintain/engineer the ship... maybe their airship can be called “Blackbird.” blah blah blah...)_
> 
>  
> 
> _#2 Erik can be someone of an authority... a king or a prince, a captain of some army or whatever. Erik desires to keep Charles by his side, but Charles tries to trick his way out because he belongs to sky. (Dark!Erik is fine.) The author can decide whether Charles is successful or not. Please please make them equally clever and the love war between them like one good chess game._
> 
> Because I'm a scatterbrain, I had to bully poor Winterhill into doing at notice so short she practically had to work back into time. So sorry to have put you through this, hun, and thank you for the effort!

The city is a glimmer of light in the far distance, hovering over the dark ocean. Fire erupts from its towers at regular intervals in a never-ending pulse of life, which surrounds the capital city. Further out into the sea there is the circle of wraiths; ghostly shapes of mist, curled protectively around a spot of greenish light which makes up their core, they bob on the inky waters with every gust of wind. Erik sees them clearly now. There’s so many – he has never seen this many wraiths on the waves. He clutches his beacon to his chest and sends a pulse out to warn the wraiths of his approach. 

The Beast roars and bucks, but Erik is used to its temperament and soothes the hurt with a gentle grip on the stick, which controls the stabilisers. They are flying low over the ocean now, so low that the Beast’s talons skim the surface, sending white spray of water in both directions. They are almost low enough to avoid the wraiths altogether; another ten inches or so and Erik could fly all the way to the city without triggering the alarms. It would have been a risky venture, to be sure, and he would much rather avoid the hassle of having to dry his soaked cloak. Not to mention having to explain his habits to the authorities, or the press, when a stray wave would send him over the safe zone. He sends another pulse and the wraith closest to him flickers twice, as if to say: “I see you, stranger; welcome.” Erik smirks and urges the Beast forth, between the wraiths. Their sickly glow paints his skin a ghostly grey.

High overhead the sky lights up with the aurora. Erik pulls up, so that the Beast is safely above the waters, and looks up. There is a shadow between him and the lights; a ship with her sails full, even in the gentle breeze. Her course is set for the city of Genosha, but as Erik watches the sails are trimmed and the ship tacks about, slows down, and unfurls the nets.

Erik scowls. Pirates. No one else would dare catching the aurora so close to the inhabited areas. Unfortunately the ship is too high for him to make out her name or even type – he can guess from the shape that it’s a schooner, but that’s about as much help as guessing it’s a sailing vessel. Most pirates use schooners, which stands to reason; the vessels are strong and manoeuvrable, all the easier to navigate through the empty expanses of the sky.

He reins the Beast in and urges it right, in a wide circle, hoping for the aurora to provide enough light for him to mark some detail he’d be able to use against them. At this distance it’s obvious they are heading towards Genosha – in the morning he will send a few men to look around the ports, to look for ships which arrived with the freshest haul.

A gust of salty wind stings his eyes and Erik immediately shakes his head. Pointless endeavour, that. The pirates would be welcomed wherever they choose to anchor and the treaties, though they are as feeble as the winds, protect their status in all the sky ports around the continent. It would be inadvisable to go looking for them, even if they are poaching on Genoshan territory.

They won’t stay long, he thinks, as he spurs the Beast and speeds between the wraiths. They never stay long. They would set sail for the open sees as soon as their supplies have been replenished, whether they made their sales or not, and in Genosha they would find the latter problematic: the king can do little to directly harm the sky-pirates, not when they have a reputation of closing ranks whenever an incautious port threatens one of their own, but he has the tendency to proclaim the aurora unsellable, from time to time, by demanding ridiculous taxes for the purchase.

Erik puts the pirates out of his mind for the time being. He is flying over the waves of the sea made light only by the shifting lights of the aurora; he has no need for the concerns of mortals. For now there is just the howl of the wind in his ears, culling all thought but the joy of flight.

*****

Luck is a fickle mistress, Erik decides, staring at the kid, who can’t seem to hold in his glare. The boy is flanked by two guards, with a third lounging in the door; all three keep a respectful distance, because they are wearing weapons and the boy – a young man, really – wears the tattoo of a sky pirate on his left forearm. The sky-pirates are, among other things, excellent fighters. Erik would think twice before engaging this one in combat – he is young, his bare arms are toned and used to heavy lifting. He stands still, but the balls of his feet twitch, as though he is ready to spring into action at any moment. He’s a comely lad, Erik thinks, unexpectedly. His blond hair is cropped short and, should he smile, Erik is sure he would garner a crowd of followers. He is no more than twenty-two and his face is still smooth, as though life has chosen not to heap burdens on the boy. It is a lie, because here he stands, having just killed a man, showing no evidence the act upset him any, which is a fairly clear indication it was not the first time.

“You killed a man and severely injured another,” Erik says.

The pirate bristles. “I have been insulted, threatened and attacked. I defended myself.”

“You killed a man,” Erik says again.

“It was self-defence.”

“You killed a man.” Erik can keep it up all day, and he will, if need be. There are witnesses, and Erik will call them if he needs to, to verify the statements they have signed. Then he will order the man tortured, until he confesses; and when the torturers had done their work he would have had the confession necessary to pass the verdict. The king’s law is not kind to the sky-pirates.

Fortunately, this pirate is no fool. “I did,” he says. 

“The man you injured was a Genoshan lord. The law of our land demands your death for that crime alone, not to mention the man you killed.” Erik looks at the papers before him, at the hateful proclamation from his Royal Highness, and then back up at the prisoner. “Your name is Alex Summers, yes?”

“Correct,” Summers says stiffly. He is still now; not even a twitch betrays the storms Erik can see raging inside his head. 

The dead man is a minor noble, so inconsequential that his absence will only be noticed by his bartender, and probably not even then. Erik had the displeasure of meeting him once, and so he knows that Summers’ claim of self-defence is most likely valid, he would know that even if there weren’t witnesses to testify that was the case. Summers, however, is a sky-pirate who has killed a Genoshan lord on Genoshan soil and had been apprehended by the police; the law is clear on the matter. Erik is the judge, so there is only one thing he can say.

“Captain Allerdyce,” Erik says formally, as the protocol dictates. “You will witness the sentencing.” The man on Summers’s right straightens.

“Yes, Your Honour.”

“The State of Genosha hereby sentences Alex Summers to death by beheading, for the crime of manslaughter committed against one of her sons. The sentence will be carried out tomorrow, the third day of the eleventh month, at high noon.” The pen scratches the surface of the parchment as Erik writes the words down. “The sentence has been witnessed by John Allerdyce, Captain of the Royal Genoshan Police.”

Summers holds himself straight, and only the slightest twitch of his eyebrow betrays his fear. Erik admires him for that. For one that young he is remarkably controlled. One can only hope his control will survive a night in the cell and the spectacle the execution of a sky-pirate will inevitably be.

*****

The sky is still boasting a myriad of colours, though it won’t be long before it rivals only the ocean’s blue. Erik stands in the window, watching the stone dais in the middle of the city square. The executioner has already arrived. She sits on the edge of the dais, sharpening her broadsword. Her movements are precise and practised, though to some it might appear comical that such a petite woman wields a broadsword which is nearly as tall as she is, and looks to be a few stones heavier. Moira MacTaggart is anything but frail, however. In a few years, when Erik will have moved to court as the king’s advisor, she will make a fine judge; already her knowledge of the law equals Erik’s, even if she falls victim to compassion from time to time. It won’t last, Erik thinks grimly, as she swings the sword and considers its edge. Several more years of extracting just payment for lives taken and she will be as emotionless as he is, and then she will be ready to take up the judge’s mantle.

Around the dais people are gathering. It’s still early enough that they dare to circle the steps which the prisoner will ascend in a few hours, the steps which the king and his aides will ascend before then. There’s nothing quite like a public execution to gather the masses.

“Your Honour,” someone says. It must be Allerdyce – no one else would dare to interrupt him at this time.

Erik doesn’t turn. He acknowledges the speaker with a gesture of his hand. 

“Sir, the prisoner requests a casserole and a beer for his final meal.”

Whoever came up with this particular law must have been drunk, in Erik’s humble opinion. “Then get him one.” He is not a chef or a prison warden, and this is a sky-pirate, not a spy. Why does he need to authorise the meal request?

“I will need your signature, sir,” Allerdyce says, and his reflection in the windowpane reveals he is staring past Erik’s head at the sky. Erik is, unfortunately, aware of the need and he is already readying the parchment and his seal of office.

“Do make sure he gets dessert, too.”

“Yes sir.”

Captain Allerdyce departs, hopefully to feed their prisoner, and Erik returns to his desk. He is required to witness executions he orders, but until then he has other matters to settle.

It occurs to him then that Summers might have arrived with the ship he saw the previous night – the sky-pirates rarely docked for more than a day and no other pirate vessel has docked in the past week. Erik gazes out the window one more time, then he strides to the cabinet by the far wall and pulls up a box. Inside there is a small metallic bird, barely bigger than a swallow. Erik carefully sets it on the surface of the box and spreads its wings, until he can fit his index fingers in the grooves on both sides. The smallest amount of pressure sets the creature in motion; its eyes flicker and the winds fold back, but it is only when Erik shines his beacon into its eyes that the bird truly comes alive.

“Fly to the harbour,” Erik tells it. “I want to know if the pirate ship is still docked there.”

There is a chance, however small, that Summers’ friends will try to rescue him. To do so would be idiocy, because it would give the Genoshan police just cause to destroy the ship with all she carries, but those crews are close-knit more often than not. Erik has already ordered disguised police patrols to find places among the crowds, in case intervention was planned. There is only so much he can do to dissuade them, however, and if the pirates won’t take the gentle hint and the king finds out there will be the blood of more than one pirate on the cobbles today.

The bird returns quarter of an hour after it is deployed, bearing news. “The pirate schooner is docked, Judge Lehnsherr,” it tells Erik in the voice of the harbour master. “There has been little movement, but they are ready to depart at any moment.”

Erik leans back in his chair and considers the ceiling. This means either nothing whatsoever, or everything. Pirate ships tended to be ready to depart as soon as they dock, because chances were they would need to flee. This held true for Genosha especially – more than one ship has been forced to depart in a hurry in the past year.

“Fly back,” he tells the bird. “Alert me the moment they start leaving.”

Noon is approaching fast. Erik makes quick work of the files on his desk, before he rises and dons the official red mantle, which he drapes over his shoulders and forearm. 

He doesn’t bother with carriages – given the distance he has to travel, it would only make him a laughing stock for the press. The chattering masses part before him without a conscious thought, despite the lack of uniformed escort, which is not uncommon. Erik ascends the stairs to the dais and regards the square around him with a critical eye. It would be easier, were it not for the helmet, which obscures half of his field of vision. The designer thought it a clever pun on the adage about the blindness of justice; Erik thought it was a silly way to get back at the system by the man imprisoned for shirking his taxes.

“Your Honour,” Moira says, offering him the broadsword. Erik tests the edge with his thumb. He could shave with it, were he brave enough. Satisfied that the prisoner won’t suffer long, he wraps the gleaming blade in the silk sheet Moira hands him next.

“Are you ready for this?” he asks her.

“As I always am, sir.”

“Be quick about it.” It is a needless instruction, he knows – Moira doesn’t have it in her to cause unnecessary pain.

“Of course.” She will not ask what Summers’ crime was – she won’t even ask for his name, not until he’s dead. She knows her weaknesses well.

The sun steadily climbs towards his peak when Erik hears the trumpets. His Royal Highness descends the marble steps of the palace, on foot, because he, too, recognises the laughable sight he would make if he called for a carriage to travel mere yards. Only three guards accompany him, yet the people immediately bow in half, fearful to even gaze upon his face. Moira falls to one knee, bowing her head in submission. Erik remains standing – it is a privilege of his office to greet the king as his equal.

“Erik, good day to you,” says the king. “I hear you have a treat for us on this fair morning?”

“A sky-pirate, Your Majesty.”

“Wonderful. Do rise, Lady MacTaggart. It is my belief I should let you practice standing in my presence, is that not so, Judge Lehnsherr?”

It seems too soon, but Erik doesn’t let the surprise show on his face. “It will be years yet, Your Majesty. Lady MacTaggart is very young.”

“You speak as though you are an old man. Come, let’s hurry.”

Erik turns towards the palace and raises his hand. The crowds fall silent and, in a matter of minutes, Captain Allerdyce appears and behind him Alex Summers. There are chains around his wrists, but he walks on his own, with his head held high.

Erik hates this part. He really does. He stares at the prisoner as he reads his crime and his sentence, knowing that his voice carries to the furthest corners of the square and, with the aid of megaphones, throughout the city.

“Lady MacTaggart,” he says next, turning to Moira. She bows before him and he deposits the naked sword in her hands.

She weighs the sword in her hands, as she always does. At her nod Captain Allerdyce pushes Summers forward, until he kneels on the cold stone with his head resting on the ruddy block.

“Stop!” calls a voice from the crowd.

Erik blinks, but he is not given time to wonder. Someone steps forward from the mass of onlookers and walks onto the dais, drawing back the hood from his head.

“I invoke the right of tribute, to claim a condemned prisoner as my property,” the man says. He stares at the king and the judge without a hint of fear, without a hint of any emotion whatsoever. His eyes are as blue as the sky, Erik can’t help but notice, and he holds himself with the arrogance of one of royal blood, even if his clothing is more suited to a servant than a prince.

Summers hisses, “Don’t be stupid.” He tries to whisper, but the construction of the dais is such that his voice is heard by everyone present. He realises it as soon as he finishes talking, because he doesn’t say another word, choosing instead to glare at the newcomer with venom people usually reserve for the tax collectors.

“The right of tribute can only be invoked by the royal family of Genosha.” Erik rises from his seat and steps out to Moira’s side. The man approaches him, pausing only to deliver a courteous bow to the king.

“True,” the blue-eyed stranger says, inclining his head. He reaches for his belt, which, as the rest of his garb, is a faded black of good, though not extraordinary, quality. “My name is Charles Xavier of Genosha; I am the Duke of Westchester.” A beacon lies nestled in the supple black leather, which covers his extended palm. Erik gives a reassuring nod to the captain of the police, who stands taut, with his hand on his pistol, and takes the beacon to examine it.

His first impression is that it’s heavier than most beacons of the size are – there must be some gold in it. There is a single gem embedded in the surface, a thoroughly unimpressive moonstone, almost hidden among the steel vines, like a new-born moon hiding her shining face behind the earth’s own shadow. Erik is close to tearing off his gloves to brush his fingertips against the fine metalwork. It is a work of art he holds in his hands, one indubitably created for a person of high blood; moreover, the design is congruent with the Westchester family crest. 

Erik finds himself wishing it is a fake, because should the beacon prove the claims of the stranger true, there will be trouble.

“Judge Lehnsherr,” the king says. “May I see the beacon, please?”

Erik hands it over without comment. The stranger, likewise, remains silent, while the king turns the device over in his hands.

“I do believe it is an authentic Westchester beacon,” he says at last, staring at the man. “I trust you will accompany the judge to the palace and submit it to verification?”

“I would be offended if You Majesty trusted my word on this,” says the man. “I request only that the prisoner accompanies us.”

“Your Highness doesn’t trust us to honour the law, while we wait until its validity is confirmed?” the king asks. His voice is playful, but his hands grip the armrests of his throne hard enough to force the blood out of his hands. There is a pinched look about him, and a sort of unholy glee that makes Erik shudder. The king looks _hungry_. It is an expression Erik is familiar with from his younger years and he knows that a man wearing it is prone to extreme measures. 

“On the contrary,” the presumed duke says. “I merely shudder at the notion of leaving the poor young man eyeing the sword, while he waits for the word which means his life or death.”

“I’d rather die,” Summers spits out. “Go to hell.”

“Hush, now,” the stranger says and smiles.

Erik keeps his eyes trained on the man while he bends his head to the king. “Your Majesty?”

“Detain him,” the king’s voice is less than a whisper, barely even a breath. Erik strains to hear it, but of course it’s the only way it will not be heard by everyone.

Is he an impostor, then? Erik hopes the question shines in his gaze, when he turns to look at his monarch, but all he gets is the slightest shake of the head.

Erik gestures at the man who may well be Charles Xavier and then at the silent crowd. As they step off the dais Summers is brought to his feet and led back to the palace, a respectful five steps behind them, still fuming like his life depends on it. Erik feels the anger pouring out of young pirate, like the heat does out of an open furnace. It is distracting and uncomfortable to have all that directed at his unprotected back. At the very least he knows that half the anger is directed at the duke, who, sadly, seems unbothered.

Inside, Erik directs their steps to the Room of Memory. It tends to underwhelm its visitors: it’s small and circular, its walls are bare, but beneath their featureless surfaces there is a maze of copper wires and circuits, much like the one that spills out of the ceiling and onto the floor, forming a formidable pillar of data. Erik flashes his own beacon before the pillar’s heart, which responds by extending a small screen and a set of lettered keys in his direction. Out of the many functions of the room is to program personal beacons of aristocracy, which is a ceremony in itself, but, even though most low-born are never allowed inside, the records for every single beacon issued to a citizen of Genosha are in here.

“May I see your right hand?” Erik asks. The beacon should only be sensitive to one person’s fingerprints, but there are short-term solutions circumventing the problem: there are ways of activating it with specially prepared gloves or even skin of a dead man. This would not be the case here. Erik takes off his gloves and takes the man’s hand in both of his. The stranger’s palm is calloused – there is a rope-burn on the base of the index finger – but the pads of his fingers are not scarred, which could have suggested skin grafts. There is no wax on their surface, Erik decides, brushing his fingers against the man’s palm, from the translucent skin of his wrist to the hardened mounds of his fingertips. These are not the hands of a duke, he can’t help but think, taking in the marks of burns and abrasions, even though, outside of calluses, the skin is smooth and pale.

“Is it to your satisfaction?” the man asks, and his red mouth twists into a smirk, one that Erik can’t help but return. Now that is a face of a duke, he thinks, taking in the satisfied curve or lips.

“It is,” he says simply and lets go.

The man presses his thumb against the belly of his beacon and immediately the pillar lights up with a myriad of sparks. The cogwheels within start turning as the machinery locates the appropriate cards and slots them where they are needed, until at last the screen flickers to life.

Erik spares it only a brief glance. “My sincere apologies, Your Highness,” he says, bowing deeply. “We needed to be sure. As the king’s judge I recognise your right to invoke the right of tribute. Alex Summers’ life belongs to you from now on.”

“Thank you, Your Honour.”

“Captain,” Erik says firmly, over whatever else the duke was meaning to say. Allerdyce, who stands at attention with one hand on his pistol, the other on Summers’ shoulder, straightens until his spine is straining. “Mr Summers will go with his Royal Highness. Please inform the king that there will be no execution today, unless Your Highness wishes for it to take place?”

“Goodness, no.” Xavier laughs lightly and tugs the black glove over his hand. “I have a few errands to run, which I believe Mr Summers will be able to assist me with.”

Over his dishevelled brown hair Erik can see Allerdyce depart, leaving the two of them at the mercy of Summers’ glowering. The chains are still around his wrists, but the man looks ready to tear at them with his teeth, if it means he can fight his way out.

His displeasure must soon be forgotten, however, because Allerdyce returns a respectful distance behind the king and his entourage. “I understand the identification was positive?” he asks without preamble, not even pausing when Erik nods. “Good. I had little doubt – believe me, dear boy, I remember you very well.”

The smile on Xavier’s face is perfectly sculpted, polite and empty of the joy a smile should rightfully contain. Erik hopes he’ll get to see him smile properly one day.

“I regret to say I barely remember Your Majesty,” he says.

“Why should you? You were all of ten years old, when we last spoke. Still, your eyes have not changed one bit. Do people still write poems about them, I wonder?” The king watches the duke with all the hunger Erik observed earlier, even if this time it only shows in the wrinkles around his eyes.

The duke shakes his head in amusement. “Regretfully, no. It’s probably for the best, as I can’t appreciate poetry as it undoubtedly deserves.”

The king allows himself the luxury of a smile and turns to one of his guards. “Please inform the palace staff they will be tending to an important guest tonight.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the duke says. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I have business elsewhere.”

“Your Highness can’t possibly mean to walk outside, after you have publicly revealed your name. A pirate ship is docked in the city’s harbour – we absolutely cannot risk the chance of losing you again.” The king takes the duke’s hand, much like Erik had done a moment ago, and holds it fast. “It is a miracle Your Highness is alive and well, and I promise I will do my utmost to ensure your path never crosses the pirates’ again.”

The duke, Erik notes, looks resigned, though not surprised.

“Your Majesty is far too generous. Very well, then, I humbly accept your invitation, sire.”

“I dine at six,” the king says. “Will you join me?”

The duke looks down modestly. “I’m afraid I come with little luggage. I doubt I have clothes fitting for the occasion.”

“Nonsense. The palace is big, and there is plenty of time – I’m sure something could be arranged in time.” The king claps his hands and one of his courtiers, the icy Duchess of Genosha, steps forward. “Emma, love. Would you accompany His Highness and procure a fitting wardrobe for him? It wouldn’t do for our kinsman to dine dressed like a commoner.”

“It would be my pleasure,” the duchess says coolly, indicating in no uncertain terms that the duke’s worthiness in her eyes is far from the one his title suggests.

They depart swiftly, Summers in tow, though not before the duke turns back to look at Erik, the shade of his eyes leaving him aching for the sight of the summer skies and the endless expanse of the blue oceans. Peace, he tells himself. Winter will end and you will take Beast out in the summer day, when the water is as warm as his blood and the sky open.

“Erik,” the king says, when the duchess and the duke depart hand in hand, with the prisoner trailing after them no doubt uttering curses as he goes.

“My king, the beacon is true – that man is Charles Xavier.”

“Oh, yes, yes, I know. There’s not forgetting the lad’s eyes, trust me. Quite unmistakable. He takes after his father, very much so. Brian had no hope whatsoever of denying his paternity, if he ever wanted to; one needed only to look at his son’s eyes to know the truth.” The king pauses and taps his chin. “Not that he would ever want to, mind; the boy would have been a credit to any man or woman. Very clever, equally as well-mannered, and obviously he grew up handsome, though how much of an accomplishment that is when he had been a pretty child, one can only speculate.”

Erik makes a mental note to dust his records and read up on the Westchester families. He recalls dimly a picture of the late duke and his young son, but then he was never a good judge of children’s looks. “I never met Brian Xavier,” he says instead, as clearly some input is required.

“I’m not surprised: he died when you were a boy, a long time before you came to my court.” The king folds his hands and considers the screen, which still displays Xavier’s name and rank. “I believe the name Xavier is familiar, though?”

“The duke was kidnapped by the sky-pirates when he was in his teens. His mother died of cancer a few years before that; his step-father perished in a fire shortly after the kidnapping. I believe the duke has a step-brother as well,” Erik recites, staring at the far wall. “Sir Cain Marko is serving Your Majesty as a major of the infantry.”

“Ah, yes.” The king folds his hands behind his back and circles the central pillar of the room. At his nod the guards depart and close the door behind them. The fan overhead whirs quietly drowning out all noise and when the king speaks, it is in a hushed whisper. “Are you familiar, perhaps, with the name Francis Pembroke?”

“A sky-pirate. Famed for his intellect and exploits one can only call audacious.”

The king is smirking while Erik says so. “Quite a succinct summary from a man who knows the genealogy of the royal family front to back.”

“I am your judge, sire; the sky-pirates are outside of my jurisdiction.” Be that they always remain so, he thinks, giving undue amounts of attention to the wall over the king’s shoulder. Collaring the sky-pirates is easily the worst thing to be done for the skies – what they see as their domain they guard from undue violence, granting free passage to all ships and vessels who mean no harm. There is no armada in the world to guarantee as much, even if certain kings have trouble accepting their independence with anything less than a grimace.

Erik’s king, however, grins. “Not anymore, it would seem.”

Erik doesn’t take long to assemble the facts in his mind. “You think the duke is Francis Pembroke.”

“I don’t, Erik. I know it is so. Your task will be to prove it and arrest him.”

“Sire, the man is a duke of Genosha. I cannot possibly arrest him, unless he commits a crime, and being a sky-pirate is not one.”

The king is shaking his head, and the smile on his face is a warm, indulgent one, as though he was marvelling at the naïveté of a child. “I forget sometimes how innocent you are. Don’t argue – I know you fancy yourself jaded, but believe me, Erik, you are like a child next to the people of the court. Don’t fret – I am paying you a compliment.”

“I thought I was a man of your court, sire,” Erik says with a touch of emotion he would be hard-pressed to identify. He is not insulted, because he has quite consciously kept himself aloof, but he has made the effort to blend in as much as he was able.

“You’re the judge. Your position sets you apart from the rest, which is a blessing.”

Erik opens his mouth to protest, but the king raises a hand. “Never mind that. What I will tell you next is to be kept in strict confidence, do you understand?”

There were many answers Erik could give to that. He settles for a simple “yes,” even though he knows that should the secret reveal the breaking of the law he would have no choice but to see to it that the culprit answers for his transgression, regardless of his or her station. This is his privilege and his burden: the judge has the power to judge all the citizens of Genosha, from the least beggar to the king himself. The judge is outside of politics and diplomacy; justice is his only province.

“I would call it a suspicion, but I fear it’s more than that.” The king pauses. “I am certain that Charles wasn’t kidnapped. I am certain that while the fire which killed his step-father might have been accidental, the boy’s disappearance was carefully calculated. I am certain of this, because something was missing from the burning laboratory – a music box, which Brian Xavier built to encode the plans for a weapon unlike anything the world has ever seen before.”

“Couldn’t it have perished in the fire?”

The king shakes his head. “It was a heavy box, inlaid with steel and gold, protected from high temperatures. It would take a furnace to melt the casing. I ordered the premises sifted through in the aftermath, and the box was missing.”

“You believe the boy had it with him when he was taken?”

“I believe that the boy took the box and fled,” the king tells Erik, staring into his eyes.

“Do you believe he started the fire, then? Did he intend to harm Kurt Marko?” If true, it was grounds for arrest, even though proving an act of arson nearly twenty years old would be nothing short of impossible.

“Dear god, your mind is positively swathed in crime.” 

Erik flushes under the king’s amused gaze, but he stands his ground, even when the king dismisses his concerns with a wave of his hand.

“No, I’m certain the fire was an accident, or close to it. Charles went missing days before it happened. Kurt Marko had a very tentative standing at court – he had little wealth of his own and the names of his ancestors have all but faded by the time he was born – I had promised him a title of margrave, should he decipher the instructions in the music box. Losing the box itself could have driven his temper to ebullient theatrics, which could be fatal in a laboratory. He wasn’t the most docile of men.” The king considers the machinery, tapping the edge of the screen with his fingernail. “The rumour is he was not the kindest of parents.”

That’s all very nice, although not really, Erik thinks, but… “I don’t understand, sire. If the music box was built by Brian Xavier, then his son had every right to it. Legally, it belongs to him and he can do what he likes with it.”

“The box belongs to Genosha,” the king says coldly. “You are right, though – I’m not accusing Charles of stealing it. I am, however, certain that he knows where it is, and I intend to find out.”

Erik is silent. There is a contradiction in what the king is saying, and he doesn’t do well with contradictions.

“You, my dear Erik, will assist me in that. You see, it is my understanding that the duke has been kidnapped by the pirates in his youth and held by them until now. It is of course very tragic. However, history knows cases of such people being converted to their enemies’ side, of consorting with them, to the detriment of their true homelands. Tragic, indubitably, unfortunately, treason is treason.”

“If Charles Xavier and Francis Pembroke are the same man, then your suspicions are more than valid.” Except for the part where it was supposed to be treason. Consorting with the sky-pirates is not treason, unless the country was threatened by said. Erik would know; he helped to pen the relevant laws.

“I knew you would understand.” The king slaps Erik’s shoulder and then folds his hands. “The plans in the music box pose a direct, considerable danger to Genosha. In the wrong hands they could mean our end. I know that Charles either is in possession of those plans, or knows where they are hidden. The case is therefore simple – if Charles tries to return to the sky-pirates out of his own free will, then he will have committed treason, and he will be arrested. If he doesn’t, then his duty to Genosha would be to surrender the music box to me. Well, and perhaps to disclose all he has learned about the sky-pirates, so that we may avenge his enslavement, but all in due time.”

“If the contents are encrypted, then the box will not be much use to you,” Erik points out, still trying to understand. There is sense in what the king is telling him – if the music box contained a weapon which could threaten the land, then taking it to the sky-pirates was treason, regardless of intention.

The king waves off his concerns as though they mean nothing. “I don’t think I’m reaching far in assuming Charles himself can decode it for us. I remember him as a remarkably clever boy: Brian started schooling him much earlier than it was customary. He intended for Charles to begin university education when he turned sixteen.”

A wispy memory makes itself heard over the barrage of facts. “There have been rumours of the pirates being in possession of a weapon,” Erik says. 

“So you are abreast of the rumours. Excellent. These rumours worry me, because if the pirates have the weapon Brian promised me, it means that we need the box back now, and we need Charles to decode it for us, for the sake of Genosha. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sire.” Erik understands everything, right up to the point where the king discloses the information to him.

“Wonderful. Now, as I said, I dine at six. You will join me.”

This is unexpected. Erik is sure his face must be contorted in the silliest possible expression. Of course he has dined with the king in the past, his position demanded it, but the late afternoons are usually reserved for private meals, and Erik is not noble-born, nor is he friends with the king’s inner circle. He tends to avoid the upper echelons of society whenever he can, for fear of saying, or doing, something inappropriate, like perhaps speaking his mind. “Sire, it’s an honour,” he manages, but before he can excuse himself, citing the many duties and parchments he has yet to peruse, the king speaks again, dismissing his work with a careless gesture.

“One you’ve earned many times over. Call me Sebastian; I insist.”

Erik is a little too stunned to utter more than the briefest thank you, he is therefore grateful that the king departs the Room of Memory leaving him alone with a final reminder of the time he would be expected to show in the royal dining room. “And don’t bother with finery; we will keep things friendly,” the king adds. “We want our darling Charles to trust us, after all.”


	2. the refraction in the wineglass

The single thing that gets Erik through dinner is that it is served in the least lavish room of the palace. If his eyesight was really poor, he could almost pretend he was at home, dining with Moira. It would require his imagination to stretch far beyond its usual bounds, but Erik enjoys the occasional challenge.

“I wish I had better stories to tell, Sebastian,” Duke Xavier says, lifting a glass of a ruby red wine to his mouth. He takes a sip, and when he puts the glass back down his tongue curls around his lower lip, catching a stray droplet. “Unfortunately, thrilling as their exploits may be, the sky-pirates are dull people. Their grasp on economy and investments is rather tenuous, so whatever time they spend on solid ground they spend repairing their property and very few of them match the average carpenter in skill.”

“I dread to imagine the conditions you must have been kept in,” the king says. His fork neatly scoops up a thin slice of beef from his plate, rolls it around a piece of apple and spears the result through the middle.

“I won’t pretend it was a palace, but the bedroom was, if nothing else, dry and cosy. I can’t complain.”

“However did you survive, living in such hardship,” Erik says before he can catch himself. He masks the sting of the words with a smirk, one that finds a mirror on the duchess’ face, of all places. Well, if he’s pleased the duchess, surely it cannot be good, he thinks, but the duke’s response is to throw his head back and laugh heartily.

“Forgive me, Your Honour,” he says lightly. “You are of course correct; I am in many ways indebted to my captors. They have never been cruel to me, not once, though gods know I have given them ample cause to be cross with me.” Xavier reaches for the wine glass again. “I missed wine. My king, you must let me dine with you more often, I don’t remember having tasted wine this excellent in many long years. The foreign equivalents aren’t the same.”

This prompts a discussion on spirits and Erik feels his vision go out of focus. He directs his attention at his still more than half-full plate, while the conversation moves onto the unfamiliar grounds of vineyards, grapes and famous brands. He enjoys wine as much as the next person, but as a conversation subject he finds it lacking, or rather his opinions on the matter are found lacking. When asked, Erik will insist that “red” and “sweet” are perfectly adequate to fully describe a glass of wine, and the only bouquet he’ll ever be able to smell is the one gracing the centrepiece on the table. Not that he can say much about the food, either. His palate grew more discerning as he grew older, but his tongue is still wired to that part of his brain which finds oatmeal with cinnamon a delicacy, despite the long years that passed since he last went hungry.

“Your Honour?” the duke asks, turning in his direction. In the dim light the colour of his eyes isn’t as readily apparent, though every fibre of Erik’s being is trying to remind him of the vibrant shade of blue he saw in the square outside the palace.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have much to contribute, Your Highness.” Erik reaches for the wine and makes a point of taking a hearty – though not impolite – gulp.

“You might at least tell us whether you like it.” The duke is smiling and Erik finds himself answering the smile.

“I am enjoying it,” Erik says. “Very much so. However, I am a plebeian at heart, and, begging your forgiveness, Sebastian,” it is an effort to call the king by his first name. Erik grits his teeth and bears it, hoping it doesn’t sound half as forced as it feels, “I tend to be more impressed with the desserts than the wine selection.”

The king laughs and waves his hand. The duchess looks genuinely amused, which is a surprise, as Erik was rather expecting her to break the fine bottle on his head. Her reputation is that of a woman with the very finest of taste, which comes across in her impeccable wardrobe and manners. The duke, for his part, looks down and covers his mouth with a napkin. His shoulders are shaking with laughter and, when he looks back up at Erik, his smile glows in the candlelight.

“I think you will enjoy Erik’s company, Charles,” the king says. “He is by far the finest mind I had the pleasure of meeting since your father’s passing.”

“I refuse to believe that.” The duke shakes his head and, though he fakes seriousness, there mirth in his voice is plain. “My father died over twenty years ago, and I can’t imagine His Honour is much older than I am. I simply cannot believe that you had to wait ten years for a decent conversation, Sebastian.” His eyes flicker briefly to the duchess, who is younger than both Erik and Xavier, and who greets the words with a slow blink. Her coal-black eyelashes cast deep shadows onto her pale face, creating a stark contrast between her skin and the shimmering cascade of diamonds on her neck.

“Ah, conversations come and go,” she says, “but Erik has the right amount of authority and impudence to refuse Sebastian to his face, which, as you can imagine, makes him something of a rare bloom.” She raises her glass in a silent toast, thought what it is she’s toasting Erik has no idea.

“I object to being referred to as a bloom,” Erik says with a straight face. “Most people I know would readily compare me to a plantation of venomous cacti, if they had to make do with flora, but moonsharks are generally the first creature that springs to mind.”

If this was a pub, Erik is certain Xavier would have been squirting beer all over the bar and slamming his fist in the foamy puddle – his silent laughter is so pervasive. He rather hopes there would be a pub in the near future, because fine dining is not to be scoffed at, but beer is beer. There is a certain air to the way the duke puts the food in his mouth that suggests he, too, would happily sacrifice the dainty pieces of razor-thin meats and thick sauces made from exotic fruits for a mug of beer and fried fish. The king grins at them both, and something in the lines of his face tightens, as though he is aware of Erik’s little revelation. Even the duchess hides a smile of genuine amusement.

“ _Quod erat demonstrandum_ ,” the king says with a grand, sweeping gesture. He leans back in his chair and claps, which summons the servants, half of whom steal the plates from underneath their noses and replace them with crystal bowls of ice cream.

Xavier takes the spoon and scoops up a generous amount into his mouth. He looks thoughtful as he licks the spoon clean, as though the bowl contains palatable ideas he is only now beginning to realise. “Sebastian, I would like to visit my ancestral home.”

“Certainly. Erik will accompany you to wherever you please, within city limits.”

This is news to Erik, who barely stays ahead of his work at the best of times, and he works from dawn till dusk. “Sire,” he begins, but the king is still talking.

“Firstly, it’s Sebastian, Erik. Secondly, the pirates aren’t known for kidnapping people for no reason at all. If they kept you alive, Charles, they must have had plans regarding your person. I refuse to let those pan out. You have returned home safely; I intend to keep it that way.”

“I will not object to a guard, but the judge himself?” Charles’ eyes are wide open, earnest in their disbelief. “That seems both excessive and pointless, begging your pardon, Your Honour. You might be skilled at swordplay, but pirates aren’t known for standards of their duelling. Their game is more to avoid the confrontation and steal away into the night.”

“I have to agree with His Highness,” Erik says, barely remembering to remove the spoon out of his mouth. “I am handy with a sword, provided my opponent is kneeling and exposing their neck. I don’t think I’ll be much help.”

“I envy you, I trust you are aware.” The king rests his chin in his palm and stares at Erik with a dreamy expression.

Erik leans back in his chair and stares. “I don’t understand.”

“I envy the fact that you feel young enough to seriously consider the notion that I might be assigning you, the Judge of Genosha, as a bodyguard. Ah, I feel so old.” The king sighs, but when he shakes his head he is smiling, even if, when he next speaks, the smile is no longer kind. “The thought has never crossed my mind. Charles will naturally be provided with guards, as will you, but you will accompany him wherever he goes, because there is no one else in the state I trust to find the reason Charles was kidnapped in the first place. Can you do that for me, Erik?”

Let it never be said, Erik thinks sourly, that the king engages in subterfuge. No – when something needs to be whispered, the king shouts it, when it needs to be said, he makes proclamations and when it’s time to proclaim, out ride the armies and the orchestras. Thank you, Your Majesty, Erik refrains from saying, for ensuring that Duke Xavier has no doubts whatsoever about the purpose of his presence here. Not that Erik would keep it that clandestine, either, because it is his duty to pursue justice for all parties involved, but it would have been a courtesy to allow him to make the decision.

“Thank you,” the duke says, very softly. “I had precious little time to spare for wondering, but there is far too much mystery surrounding the events. I would welcome the chance to clear it up.”

“Excellent.” The king beams and merrily inhales the rest of his ice-cream. “Erik, I’ll have rooms made up for you in the palace, adjacent to Charles’. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid your ancestral home has fallen into disuse since you left, and I don’t think the servants are sufficiently prepared for your return as of yet.”

“I have learned to make my own bed,” the duke says, pursing his lips into an innocent pout. “It is an exact science, as it turns out, and while I am happy to leave it to the professionals, I am not helpless on my own. I even learned to cook, if one could grace my meagre attempts at heating foodstuffs with the term.”

Erik finds his mind has blanked itself out, possibly at the horror of staying the night – potentially many nights – in the palace. He sips the wine (which has undergone a surprising transformation from a mellow red to spicy white, right under his very nose) and nods without uttering a sound. He refrains from reacting when the king claps his hands and a servant escorts the duke, who cites weariness as an excuse, to his suite. He watches him leave in the flickering reflection of the hallway on his glass.

“So, how do you find darling Charles?” the king asks when the door is closed and the footsteps in the hall become too quiet to hear.

“Clever.” That’s putting it mildly. Erik is among the brightest people in Genosha; he knows this for a fact. With little formal schooling he managed to outperform his peers in most areas of academia, then of course there was his appointment to the position of the royal executioner at the age of twenty-four, a feat all the more incredible for requiring the applicant to have completed a full dissertation on Genoshan law. So yes, Erik knows he is clever. When he looks at Duke Xavier, however, he sees a mind every inch his equal, and one far more accustomed to verbal games – of course he only has the verbal games to judge his cleverness, but the fact remains that he dined with three most able minds on the political stage of Genosha and managed to reveal next to nothing of his past, a subject all three were greatly interested in. “Very diplomatic.”

“His lineage is not famed for diplomats, but I expect the cleverness they are famed for would lend itself to many pursuits,” the king says.

“Sire—Sebastian, I don’t understand what it is you want me to do here.”

The king leans forward. “Whatever is necessary, Erik. No more.”

Whatever little sense it makes, Erik gladly takes it as his cue to leave. A servant appears as soon as he straightens, wordlessly striding before him to open the door for his convenience.

“I wish you a pleasant night,” Erik says, bowing to the king and the duchess.

“Goodnight Erik,” the duchess tells him, snatching a berry from the fruit-plate before her. “Sleep well.”

Erik’s rooms – because there are rooms, he discovers with very little surprise – are an unholy offspring of plush, satin and damask, a creature bred during some sort of cloth orgy in the moonlight. He shakes his head and opens the windows. He needs to claw his way through heavy curtains and an ancient latch, but when he finally manages and feels the wind on his face, the weight spread across his lungs dissipates. What he wouldn’t give to have the Beast right now, to be able to leap right out of the window onto its back and speed through the night.

Instead he has to shadow a cunning duke around and listen to the elusive fluttering of paperwork, which indubitably floats into his office in his absence and makes nests on every available surface.

He takes stock of the suite, just in case. The sitting room is connected to what to Erik’s inexpert eye looks like a boudoir, for which he has no use, but there is also a bedroom, thankfully less opulent than the other two. The bed is huge, naturally, but the walls are an acceptable dull blue and the curtains on the bed and window, although heavy, are plain plush, with little ornamentation. He opens the window there, too. The night is cold, but the covers are thick and will keep him warm, which is vastly preferable to waking with his lungs and mind filled with heavy perfume.

Out of idle curiosity he pokes his head out the window and stares down at the palace courtyard. There is a soldier hidden in the shadows directly opposite his window, who straightens and salutes when he notices Erik looking at him. Erik returns the salute and withdraws. There was a large crossbow at the man’s side, with a quiver full of arrows.

So the king suspects Xavier would run, if he had no other option.

Further investigation of his suite reveals a doorway hidden among the tapestries, and beyond it muffled voices. Erik, after a very short debate, pushes the handle softly enough to ensure it won’t be noticed, but hard enough to convince the onlookers, when he is noticed, that spying was not his intention.

He manages the balance perfectly, he thinks, when the door slides open soundlessly to reveal Duke Xavier and Summers, the former enjoying a cup of tea, the latter pacing the expensive carpet and tugging at his hair. 

“…overboard. How could you do this to me!”

Xavier looks up and by the way his eyes flicker Erik knows his presence has been noted, though the duke doesn’t acknowledge it in any way. “Do calm down, Alex,” he says. “Your Honour, how may I be of assistance?”

“My apologies, Your Highness. I was investigating my suite and it turns out to lead here.”

“The king clearly has no respect for a man’s right to cease working for the night.” The duke’s legs are crossed and his posture betrays nothing. He is neither nervous nor relaxed; he seems neither calm nor agitated. Erik is more than a little impressed.

“Such is service,” he says, letting himself into the room.

Summers mutters something under his breath, something which Erik understands as a colourful curse aimed at his parentage.

“Being pardoned from the death penalty doesn’t make you exempt from obeying the law,” he tells the young man sternly. “You will show me respect.”

“You’re a goddamned butcher, you deserve none!”

“Alex,” Xavier says very softly, but the softness of his voice comes with dragons, fire and death implied. “Behave.”

Erik is very impressed.

Summers bristles, but as he clenches his eyes shut a very polite, “I apologise, Your Honour,” emerges.

“Excellent. We will have some use for you yet.” Duke Xavier sets the cup aside and stands up. Before he turns to face Erik he looks at Summers. “There’s a boudoir adjacent to this room, you can sleep there. I expect you to rise at dawn and be ready to serve.”

Summers makes a face but departs, not without throwing a worried glance over his shoulder, a glance that is very clearly meant to convey abject apology and fear. Most importantly, for Erik’s investigation, it conveys fondness for the duke, the likes of which Erik has often observed among friends. He suspected as much – Xavier has far too keen a mind to risk so much for a random stranger, whereas a friend is a wholly different matter. Friendship makes fools out of people, Erik has seen this more than once.

“He seems like a strange companion for a duke,” Erik observes.

“We all have our quirks. I enjoy his humour. Can I help you in any way, Your Honour?”

“You must know what the king wants.” Erik folds his arms and holds the duke’s gaze. He’s discarded the fine jacket the king must have provided him with, because he is wearing only a plain shirt, loosely fastened at the throat. The material fans over his collarbone, enough to show the freckles beneath. His wrists are likewise bared; Erik can see the blue veins crisscrossing the pale skin when the duke holds out an open palm to invite him to sit down.

“Other than keeping me as his guest for an indeterminable period of time, I have no idea.” The duke smiles and runs a hand through his hair. “My very first day back, and I didn’t even get a chance to visit my home. Isn’t that bad luck?”

“The king wants the music box you took from your father’s laboratory.” Erik feels smug when Xavier drops both his hands and stares at him, as though he spouted the most shocking sentence in existence.

He collects himself soon, and when he speaks he is as calm as though nothing has happened. “Well. I didn’t expect you to be quite so straightforward about it.”

“I’m the judge, not a diplomat.”

“I can see that. I appreciate the candour, Your Honour.”

There is a brief moment of silence, during which the duke fixes Erik with an unnerving stare of his bright eyes.

“I was hoping you would surrender the music box right now,” Erik says.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, that won’t happen.” The duke beams at him and moves to the teapot. “Can I interest you in some tea?”

“Gladly.” Erik sits on the couch and watches the duke busy himself with adjusting the levers on the little furnace, until the gears turned enough to allow the steaming water to pour from the black kettle into a porcelain pot. “Is there no way I can persuade you that it would be the best course of actions for everyone involved?”

“No, my friend, because it wouldn’t be. The music box belonged to my father, thus it now belongs to me. Taking it from me would be theft, whether it is at the order of the king or not.”

“Not giving it up will make your life difficult, Your Highness.”

“Believe me, not half as difficult as giving it up would. I’m sorry, Your Honour.” The duke tilts his head and looks at Erik thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to call me Charles? I feel we will be spending a lot of time arguing this and titles are tedious.”

“Charles,” Erik says, easily enough. The name is far smoother coming out of his lips than “Sebastian” ever was or will be. “Erik Lehnsherr.” He holds out his hand for a friendly handshake over the tea tray and the game table, onto which, he noticed, someone has inlaid alternating squares of dark wood and mother of pearl, likely to spare the occupant the indignity of having to fetch a board from the shelves.

“Thank you, Erik. You play chess, I take it?”

Erik looked back up at Charles, over their joined hands, to find the duke studying his face, even though his gaze flickers minutely to the table. “I play, yes,” Erik says as he releases the hold. “I haven’t been able to play much lately.”

“I thought so. Here, your tea: I find it most enjoyable; winter spice with rose preserves make for an interesting contrast.” Charles hands him a cup, as delicate as though it was made of paper, and a heavy crystal bowl, small enough to be hidden in the palm of his hand, filled with glistening rosy confectionary.

“Please don’t make tea into another wine-tasting. You will find my views lacking.” Erik takes a sip of the tea and sighs. It is good – sharp on the tip of the tongue and wonderfully smooth later on. “Do you play?”

“I’d rather not, if that’s all the same to you.” Charles sits down opposite to Erik, in the puffed up chair, with the chess table between them. “I presume you would know all about how people reveal the workings of their mind through the course of the game?” At Erik’s nod he continues, “I’m afraid it’s something I am more than prone to, if not through strategy, then through saying the first thing which comes to mind while my focus is on the game. How about Backgammon instead?”

“Alright.” 

The king spared no expense. The Backgammon set is heavy; the pieces are carved of opaque stone. Erik rolls the die between his fingers before he casts them, too busy watching the flickering lights of the flames in the fireplace cast shadows on Charles’ face.

“Is it too soon to ask about the contents of the box?” he asks eventually, when half of his pieces have migrated to the opposite end of the board. Charles looks up at him with the question plain in his gaze. “The king insists on having it back. I’m afraid it will take more than your word to convince me why he shouldn’t get his way.”

“It contains the designs of a weapon and a very fetching melody of sentimental value, besides. But I see the king has already told you that.”

“He had. Not about the song, mind.”

Charles smiles. “Then why ask?”

“He has weapons aplenty. What’s so special about this one?”

Charles leans back in his chair and sips his tea. Erik watches him over the rim of his own cup; he can tell there is a war going on in the duke’s mind, possibly pitting the desire to share the specifics and potentially gain and ally against the need for secrecy. Erik keeps his peace until Charles can make up his mind.

“I won’t bore you with details,” Charles says in the end. “They require a thorough understanding of physics and a good working knowledge of experimental sciences. The weapon is special, you could say, in that it must never be deployed.”

“Doesn’t seem like a useful weapon then.”

“What would you do, if you had a weapon so terrible it could destroy whole cities?” Charles puts the cup down and stares at Erik. For once he isn’t smiling. “Not just destroy – any fleet equipped with bombs can do that. I’m talking about destruction so thorough it would make them uninhabitable for years. For decades. I’m taking about a device which ensures that, after the target has been eliminated, anyone who comes close enough will die in agony for the transgression.”

Erik shrugs. “First of all, I wouldn’t believe it.”

“I wish I couldn’t.” Charles sighs with the air of a man who has had this conversation previously and haven’t managed to progress past the initial disbelief once. “It would make my life easier.”

“I take it your charms alone weren’t quite enough to keep you fed and clothed throughout the ordeal?” Erik asks, casting his die. “I can’t imagine pirates would want to keep you for the pleasure of the conversation alone.”

“I’m a man of many talents.” Charles offers him a cheeky grin and brushes his hair away from his forehead. Erik smirks. They play well into the night and when Erik retires for the night he discovers, to his own surprise, that he had little time to miss the Beast and the open seas.

*****

Charles’ clothes are supplied by the king, but Erik needs to send a servant to his home to fetch a fresh set for himself to wear. He manages to pick the least clever of the men working in the palace, because he is greeted with the selection of his formal uniforms and the official cape.

Erik dismisses the servant and sends another with the exact same request, though this time he pens a short note to Moira, begging her to supervise the man. He will not be making a mockery of the office by tailing an errant duke in full regalia, after all.

When he joins Charles at breakfast he is clad in a demure black shirt with a raised collar, and plain pants. As a concession to the weather he adds a leather coat. Fortunately, the people responsible for supplying Charles with clothes are far more competent than those Erik trusted with the same, and, though the outfit has been tailored to fit a slightly taller man, he looks like a proper duke, particularly when there’s a cup of tea in his hand.

“What have you planned for today?” Erik asks, taking a seat beside Summers, who glares at him and scoots away, taking his plate of fried bacon and ham with him.

“I’m going to visit my home,” Charles says, oblivious to the tense atmosphere in the room and later the carriage. The tension doesn’t lessen as they make their way out of the city and towards the neglected Xavier mansion, because Erik, out of sheer malicious spite, takes a seat next to Summers in order to watch him squirm and cast despondent looks at Charles.

Fortunately for the kid’s peace of mind the duke finds a chore for him the moment they cross the lightly humming border between the city property and the grounds belonging to the Xaviers. “Alex, do you have any familiarity with animals?” Charles asks, leaning forward expectantly.

“Yeah, I guess. I grew up on a cattle farm.”

“Excellent! Would you be so kind as to inspect the stables? I remember we used to keep horses. Or cows.”

“Horses or cows?” Summers starts to ask, but cuts himself in the middle and stays silent. He is out of the carriage and all but running in the direction of the presumed stables, while Erik discreetly signals a guard to follow. Out of the remaining three guards one stays with the carriage, while the other two follow Erik and the duke upstairs, down memory lane. The keeper of the property welcomes them with nothing short of open arms, though he is far too reserved to show his sentiment for “young Master Charles” any way other than a deep bow.

“Goodness, I don’t know why I worried, with you in charge,” Charles says warmly. Erik privately thinks he had reason to worry; there is enough dust in sight to justify the immediate dismissal of any maid impudent enough to draw wages for her work. Everything is covered in white sheets, however, so it might be that the mansion is simply asleep, waiting for the heir to return. Charles dismisses the keeper and leads them into the house, pointing out his favourite haunts as he goes.

Well, if His Majesty expected a confession in the familiar setting, he would be disappointed, Erik thinks as Charles throws yet another door open and regales them with a tale of how he broke his mother’s wine bottle on the edge of the dresser. The guards are fidgeting as though someone took the trouble of sewing live bees into their trousers and Erik eventually sends them to patrol the corridors ahead.

“The poor fellows,” Charles says, opening a door which leads to his childhood bedroom. Considering the rest of the house it is far less lavish than Erik would have expected. The sole indication of wealth are the leather-bound tomes on the shelves and a half-finished trinket on the desk. “Oh, I remember that!” Charles picks up a half-assembled mechanism and blows the dust off. “Goodness, it seems so clunky now.”

“You’ve studied mechanics since?”

“There’s precious little to do when living under the thumb of a sky-pirate. I had to content with watch-making, half the time, but the leap to other devices is not great.” He sets the thing in motion with practiced ease, and the cogwheels click around the table in an awkward gait, not unlike a duck. Charles watches it with a fond smile. “Believe it or not, it was going to be a gift for Emma, for her eight birthday. It was going to be a duckling. She used to love ducklings.”

Erik tries to reconcile the icy duchess with a small, awkward mechanical duck.

“Was she a small and awkward child?” he asks, containing a smirk.

Charles laughs. It is brilliant and thrilling, the exact cadence of seawater drumming against the Beast’s flanks on a sunny day. “No, not particularly. She was chubby and very sure of herself, even then. Anyone, even her, could see she would grow into a beauty.”

There is a framed picture on the shelf, half-hidden by a white sheet and twenty years’ worth of dust. Erik blows at the glass and finds himself face to face with Charles, minus the politics. The boy in the picture is pretty, for a lack of a better word – his lips are red, his eyes smiling and his arm is around a blonde girl about half his age, who stares at the camera as though it should kneel and do her bidding. Erik smiles, just a little. His own childhood photos invariably have him scowling and hiding his bony wrists and knobbly knees.

Charles is at his elbow, suddenly, breathing across the narrow space between them both, the shelf and the dusty photograph. “You weren’t exactly without promise,” Erik says easily.

“Goodness, me, Your Honour, is that a compliment?” Charles’ eyes open wide and his hands clasp together against his bosom, in a gesture so theatrical Erik cannot help but laugh. All that is missing is white face-paint and heavy robes. Even then, he thinks, it would be a shame to paint over those red lips; some things are not meant to be concealed.

They stay the night in the ancient mansion. The keeper makes the effort and a few maids are called from town, to prepare the rooms for the duke and the judge. The following day is spent inspecting the rest of the grounds, most of which have fallen into disuse, producing just enough to earn their upkeep and no more. Erik has the distinct impression that he should be paying more attention – after all, any well-run estate is bound to turn in profit, or fall into ruin, the fact that the Xavier fortune has remained static over the years is suspicious, at best. He puts it out of his mind, or rather he allows Charles to distract him, with tales of childhood exploits and the basics of mechanics. 

Summers trails after them both with a sour expression on his face, wincing whenever Erik turns to look at him. Then, invariably, Charles notices the exchange and doubles the charm, taking Erik by the arm and proudly sharing the charred remains of the laboratory.

All the while he watches Erik and that’s the main reason Erik lets the communication slide without a comment. Charles’ eyes remain fixed on him, whether he is scolding Alex or demanding more attention to be paid to this or that, and Erik finds himself transfixed by the vivid colour of his gaze each and every time. When they return to the palace, a few days later, at the king’s urgent behest, they are made to suffer through yet another state dinner, during which Charles takes it upon himself to maintain a separate conversation with each of the five people present. They are finally allowed to retire, late in the evening, but by then the intensity of Charles’ gaze is dimmed until Erik misses it keenly, more than he thought he could miss anything.

Thankfully, the sensation of loss diminishes when they are allowed privacy and Erik finds himself in a chair by the fire, with Summers out of sight and Charles sprawled across from him at a Backgammon board, with a bottle of wine which a butler procured from Erik’s favourite little pub. It is home-made and fresh as rainwater, thus unworthy of gracing the palate of the royalty, but Charles is happily partaking of it with pleasure evident in the lines of his body.

“What made you want to become a judge?” Charles asks at one point, hefting a glass between himself and the fireplace, presumably to watch the ruby reflections cast by the liquid fracturing the orange light.

“I was the best in my class.”

“That’s a result, not the cause. I’m asking, you see, because you picked a career which requires you to spend years killing people.” Charles runs the tip of his finger along the rim of the glass, licking his finger when the friction proves too great.

Erik averts his eyes when he replies, choosing instead to stare into the fire. “An executioner deals punishment to those who earned it. It has nothing to do with killing.”

“Ah, I understand.”

“What can you possibly understand?” Erik asks, only a little annoyed, but the look on Charles’ face is understanding and, worst of all, knowing.

“You lost someone to a thoughtless crime, didn’t you?” He doesn’t change his position or the direction of his gaze, which is directed away from Erik. Nonetheless, Erik starts. The wine in his glass sloshes and spills onto his fingers, but fortunately no further.

“My mother,” he says after he dabs his fingers clean with a napkin. “A mugger accosted her on the street, heavens knew why. She didn’t even have money on her; just enough coins to buy bread and vegetables for dinner for the two of us. We didn’t have much money.”

Charles smiles. “And now you are a Judge, dealing out justice to children who step out of line.”

Erik bristles at the implicit accusation. “I have never once ordered the death of a child, regardless of their crime.”

“I didn’t mean to sound condemning. I did listen to stories, you know. You are never referred to as anything other than fair. Although,” and here Charles’ expressions becomes decidedly more devilish, “I did hear you have a penchant for bringing whole organisations to their knees.”

“It was only one crime den, and the credit goes to my predecessor.” Erik can’t help but notice the teasing undertones in Charles’ voice, and react accordingly. “Although I grant you: it gave me a fierce reputation.”

“Nine men. That must have been a long day of work.”

“It wasn’t easy.” Erik downs the wine and finds himself unable to look away from Charles’ face. There are deep shadows cast against the orange hue of his skin, flickering as the fire roars and recedes. “Some of them were unwilling to kneel.”

“I can’t see how you’d have any trouble bringing people to their knees,” Charles says in a low voice, so low that Erik feels it before he hears it, and when he finally does hear, it no longer matters, because his whole body is already shivering with the force of it. He doesn’t avert his eyes, and neither does Charles. Seconds, even minutes, pass as they stare one another down. “Do you, Your Honour?” Charles slides from his chair onto the thick carpet and crawls until he is propped against Erik’s armrests. “Would you like me on my knees before you?”

“I can’t help but notice you already are,” Erik says. Though his heart is beating wildly, he forces his breath to even out. It’s not a task he would recommend to the weak-minded, as failure is most alluring and the promise that hangs between them, unspoken, is one worth failing for.

Charles laughs lightly and moves closer, until Erik’s knees are framing his chest. His palms burn brands on Erik’s skin through his thin shirt. “How do you feel about it?”

“Not particularly conflicted,” Erik says and leans forward to claim the few inches separating their lips. He’s given little time to savour their kiss, barely enough to taste the wine they’ve been drinking, because Charles’ fingers skim the waistband on his trousers and dip inside, brushing against his cock. The first contact shocks him – Charles’ fingers are curiously cold – and he bucks into the sensation. Charles laughs at him as his other hand joins the first and together they lay him bare and stroke with fleeting touches. Erik throws his head back and gulps down a lungful of air, one after another. It helps very little, because he can no more will his body to relax now than he can fail to feel the ghost of breath around his cock, followed by the tentative brush of tongue.

Charles makes a soft huffing sound, and it’s no surprise that Erik doesn’t even hear it, muffled as it is. He can feel it through his body, though; rattling, soft and fluttering. He doesn’t even notice when his fingers tangle in Charles’ hair, raising and falling like the waves upon the shore. His muscles quiver and the fire roars as it consumes the wooden logs. Thin wisps of smoke scatter the fleeing sparks, carrying them higher and into the chimney.

He is sure Charles is laughing, never losing the pace. His tongue is slick and hot against Erik’s cock, drawing him onto a spiralling height which is swiftly reaching its peak, and from where there was no way but down. Erik’s hand reaches out, until he can curl his palm against Charles’ nape. He holds on, as Charles pulls him higher and over the edge, drawing him far into his mouth moments before letting go, over and over, until Erik sees stars.

He forces himself to relax his grip and watch, through barely open eyes, as Charles sits up and chases down his seed with a mouth full of wine from Erik’s own glass.

“I want you in my bed,” Erik says, stroking the surprisingly soft skin of Charles’ jaw. He’s not sure what he means by that, only that it’s not meant to convey lust alone. Words are failing him, ideas and concepts are failing him – the world is made of want, lights and shadows, and most of all Charles.

The same understanding gleams in Charles’ eyes when he says, “I want you in mine.” It’s barely been days, and here they are, consummating what should be a simple relationship, a lack thereof – there can’t be one, they will have this night and no more, because Erik’s king demands his allegiance and Charles is in its way. For now, though, Charles rises, holding himself up on his hands on the armrests, and presses their mouths together. Erik draws him closer until they are balancing precariously on the chair, fighting for equilibrium and dominance as hands roam, unbidden, undoing buttons, loosening strings, until there is enough skin to press together, enough to, finally, give them pause. “It would be prudent to move to a bed,” Charles says. His chest heaves under Erik’s mouth.

Erik is loath to move, when he has all the friction he needs right there, on the chair in front of the fire, and the bed would be already cold, no matter how many maids wandered by with their warming pans. He can feel Charles’ cock against his stomach and wants, needs, to touch and taste it; he feels the scant inches of exposed skin, warmed with want and fire, and needs to have it all, needs, aches to be pressed against Charles under a downy duvet. It’s that simple, really: here there is fire and heat, but also rug burns and chairs made for one. There can be no contest, so with great effort he stands, pushing Charles to stand before him.

What a sight they must make, breathless, flushed, with their clothes indecently open and falling off. Erik draws Charles in for another kiss and they begin moving, even though the distance feels like miles. For every step there is a kiss and for every kiss the fire that is burning in the fireplace in the sitting room moves into Erik’s veins, so that when they finally step into the bedroom – is it his, or Charles’? Does it even matter? – and collapse onto the bed, Erik can’t help his body’s need to rut against Charles. He’s not quite so young he can recover minutes after an orgasm, so it is Charles who cries out first, but he’s also not so old he can’t feel desire burning in him anew.

He was right about the bed – despite the tell-tale scent of some light perfume which the maids add to the coals, the sheets are cold. Strangely enough, it works out to both their advantage: Charles clings to him as Erik draws the duvet over them both; goose bumps mar his skin until Erik kisses them away.

None of the maids dared to close the window, and Erik takes great delight in exposing Charles to the cold air, feeling him shiver and seek his warmth, which he grants with a breathless moan, rolling them over until Charles writhes beneath his weight. They play this game until they are too exhausted to move. 

Too sated to conceive of a task that needs doing, too weary to care, they fall asleep hopelessly tangled together in the king’s guest bedroom.


	3. the schooner in the storm

The clucking of the chickens wakes Erik, without fail, the moment the sun detaches from the horizon, even though it’s been close to thirty years now since he had chickens to feed, or slept where he could hear them. He’s reasonably certain he owns some chickens now, but his home, though modest for his station, is large enough that he never gets to see them. The only reason he even suspects he owns any, is that fresh eggs are available whenever the mood for an omelette strikes him.

Chickens aside, Erik opens his eyes to a very pleasing sight; there’s a tousled head of hair on the pillow next to his, attached to miles of pale skin, which slopes gently downwards, to disappear under the covers, where he can nonetheless feel it against his own. His hand rises of its own accord, to trace a scar which mars Charles’ shoulder.

Charles sighs and turns, burrowing his face into the pillow, though his eyes are already open, if reluctantly.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning.” Erik hesitates. There was far too little conversation last night, far too much has gone unsaid. He wanted Charles then, as he still wants him now, and the want was – is – mutual, but there are things both of them need to consider, things Erik should have made clear earlier. He doesn’t voice them yet. “Did you sleep well?”

“I will be holding this night as a golden standard of rest, from now on.” Charles stretches across the warm sheets. His lips are already wet, but when his gaze finally reaches Erik’s, he wets them again.

“If it’s the sleep that sticks out in your memory, I am both offended and disappointed.”

Charles laughs. “I assure you, there is a need for neither.” He sidles closer, until they are pressed together shoulder to toe. “In fact, I was so satisfied that I was rather hoping for an early morning reprise.”

Well, Erik is not quite so heartless he can refuse a hope like that. He kisses Charles deeply, rolling on top of him, which elicits a delighted groan. Meanwhile, he finds purchase for his knees against the soft mattress, so that when he has Charles sufficiently distracted he can slide down in one smooth move, taking the covers with him, until he has Charles completely exposed to the cold morning air and his own eager mouth.

The gasp which is his first reward is very gratifying on its own, and it is followed by a series of moans and, finally, a sound which may well be his name, wrecked as it is by Charles dragging it all the way down from his toes.

It’s a good morning. The sun climbs the sky at a steady pace, and just as he rises over the castle walls to shine into Erik’s window, there is a fluttering on the wind and a then a clatter of metallic talons on the stone windowsill. Erik sits up as his messenger takes flight and lands on his hand. He needs to lean over the edge of the bed to retrieve his beacon from his discarded clothes, an action which causes no small amount of amusement to Charles, who watches the creature curiously, as it opens its beak and begins to speak.

“Your Honour, the sky-pirates have departed,” it says in the voice of the master of the harbour. “The condemned prisoner was on board. No one had seen him arrive, but he was on board when the ship took off.”

The bird falls silent and for a few long moments Erik stares at it. Then he turns to look at Charles, who is watching him, all pretence of playfulness gone. His gaze is steady and utterly bereft of humour.

“The king will not be pleased,” Erik says quietly. Charles nods.

No, the king will not be pleased. Summers was, if nothing else, leverage that could have been used to ensnare the duke. More importantly, Summers is a condemned prisoner who has been allowed to depart the country as a free man. Erik doesn’t like it, but he was given a job to do and he will do it. He hefts the bird until it is staring Charles in the face and presses the button on his beacon for a few heartbeats. “Report the location of this man,” he tells the bird, “Every morning an hour past dawn.”

It takes a moment longer than Erik is used too, but then he has never before asked the thing to follow a person. It is state of the art, and the manual assured that tracking was one of his functions: Erik has spoken to the master craftsman who assembled it and walked away understanding very little of what has been said, past “the bird will latch onto the idiosyncrasies in a person’s heartbeat, the picture of their iris, everything that’s unique to them. There is no room for mistake, Your Honour, even between twins; I stake my life on it.” The bird opens its wings and beats them against the air, while inside the cogwheels turn and slide metal slates into their slots.

“Is this not too much, Erik?” Charles asks, running a gentle hand along the curve of Erik’s collarbone. “Do you fear I will run?”

“I know you will run. I know it is my duty to stop you.”

“Sebastian is wrong, Erik.”

“Wrong is a point of view, in that case.”

“You would give him the weapon to wage war about which no songs could be written.”

Erik nudges the mechanical bird into taking a perch somewhere other than on his finger, and watches it light on the chair’s backrest, from where it surveys the room and the bed in particular. Its gem-like eyes turn to Charles, one at the time, as though drinking in his appearance. Erik has enviable eyesight, so he fancies he can see their reflection in the convex surfaces of its eyes. He hopes the thing doesn’t preserve images in its memory, then remembers: how can it, when it is too small to contain a camera. This is why he feels no self-consciousness when he leans in to mouth along Charles’ sternum.

“It is his duty to protect Genosha from countries which seek to harm her people, as it is mine to protect them from themselves. I’m sure you understand that,” he tells the duke.

“We have a duty that’s greater than our countries. I’m no traitor, yet I will insist on keeping my peace on the matter, regardless of what Sebastian wants me to do, or say.”

“Then, I fear, you will be branded a traitor.”

“So be it,” Charles tells him, and draws Erik in for a long kiss.

*****

“Have you made progress?” the king asks without looking up from the maps spread all over his desk. Erik watches him trace a line with his fingers, as he summons all his knowledge of geography, to identify the line as the border between the states of Ormica and Genosha. Some foreign books are strewn about the desks, and in the centre there is the king’s personal beacon, sitting the in middle like an egg carelessly abandoned by an avian parent. There is no mechanical spy in sight, or any other item which requires verification, so it is likely that one was just sent out on an errand.

“Alex Summers has returned to the sky-pirates,” Erik says in lieu of answering the question. “The ship has departed our shores this morning.”

“Alex Summers.” The king straightens. “The pirate Charles Xavier stepped forth to save is gone.”

“Yes, sire.”

“How did this happen?” There is clear accusation in his voice, one he makes no attempt to conceal.

How should he know, Erik grouses privately. He was assigned the task of spying on the duke, not Summers. Frankly, Summers is immaterial; the more time Erik spends with Charles the more sure he is of the fact. Oh, he matters enough in that Charles cares for him personally, but that in itself carries little weight. Charles cares enough for people in general that he’d be willing to step up to save the life of anyone passingly familiar, let alone someone he is better acquainted with. He and Summers, from what Erik observed, have enough fondness between them to justify the unholy mess, but it is not so strong a connection that Charles shares with him his secrets, thus rendering the pirate inconsequential. Erik may not be the most social of men, but he knows himself enough to recognise his own traits in other people, and Charles is, in that regard, his twin. They both care deeply for people they are responsible for, but at the same time they feel so removed from them, that even genuine friendship is superficial indeed.

In one of his more pensive moments Erik wonders whether Charles has anyone he trusts with his secrets at all, like Erik has Moira.

He shakes himself out of the reveries to answer. “I do not know, Sire. He was at the palace last night, when we retired, and this morning I was informed that the ship departed and he was on board. I can say no more.”

“I see.” The king levels him with a stare so rigid and unfriendly that if Erik harboured any fondness for the man, he would have it burned out of him on the spot. As it were he stood his ground and returned the stare, trying not to let his distaste show on his face. “Tell me, did his escape occur before or after you bedded the good duke? Now, don’t deny this – do me at least this courtesy. It is written on your face, I’m afraid.”

Erik doesn’t start, but it’s a near thing. “Sire,” he begins, fully expecting to be interrupted. When no such interruption arises, he takes another breath and wrestles his thoughts into submission. When he speaks, he speaks stiffly, because discussing his night-time habits with his king is something he considers neither necessary, nor pleasant. “Sire, I will not deny bedding His Highness. I never intended to make it a secret.”

“I didn’t want to offend you,” the king says. His eyes are neither confirming nor denying the sentiment. Erik feels as though he is defending himself to a porcelain doll. “Charles is a seductive creature – I believe there aren’t many people who would refuse him, when he put his mind to it, and I have seen the way he looks at you.”

“Your Majesty, I didn’t win this post by succumbing to momentary pleasures. I find the duke pleasing, but if he slips I will have him arrested. He is aware of this, as am I. You can trust me, sire, when I say it will not affect my work.”

The king watches him, only now he is openly curious, instead of hostile. “You would sentence your lover? That seems harsh.”

“My predecessor was fond of saying that justice was his only mistress. I’m somehow less poetic than he was, but that is what I believe, too.”

“That is indeed poetic. Well. I suppose you haven’t given me cause to doubt your allegiance yet.” The king lets the implication set in with the gentleness of a boulder falling into the eiderdown of freshly fallen snow. Erik straightens his back and grits his teeth.

“I’m the judge, sire,” he says, not even bothering to avert his gaze. He will not be cowed or threatened, especially when there is no plausible cause to threaten his office, to put his objectivity in question.

The king awards him an indulgent smile. “You are a man first and foremost, Erik. You are not the first judge to fall from grace because of a pretty face.”

Erik grins. “I have done nothing wrong. In fact, one could make the argument that I am fighting your cause, by making the duke bind himself to Genosha in trusting me.”

“Interesting. Yes, one could make that argument.”

“One would be wrong, of course,” Erik says, because he can’t bear to look the king in the face and tell him he is on his side. He is not, and he now knows he will never be. He understands, now, what his predecessor meant, for all the times he quoted the words in the past. “I resent being made to spy, sire. My office is not meant for clandestine operations.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself. So long as you can maintain objective judgement, I intend to allow you to continue. I trust you had fun, which I would have encouraged anyway. In a way it is most fortunate – with a man as worldly as Charles, what could sex be but pleasure?”

Erik sets his jaw and worries that his teeth would break under the strain.

The king greets his anger with a condescending smirk. “But don’t let me detain you. I’m sure you have plans for the evening.”

Erik bows reverently and departs without another word. He stalks the corridors lost in turbulent thoughts, most of which revolve around the fact that he knows his face isn’t that expressive and there have been no interruptions from the palace’s staff, either last night or this morning. This means the king is actively spying on him and Charles. That he would violate the privacy of a man already under suspicion of treason is one thing, but that he would dare to do this to his judge?

Well now, Erik thinks, frightening a manservant with a humourless grin. That is grounds for an investigation.

*****

“Good morning,” the king says, as soon as the door is opened before him. Charles and Erik are sharing a breakfast on the balcony, curling their fingers around cups of hot coffee as they watch the snowflakes dance on the wind. “Your Honour, Your Highness.”

“Your Majesty.” Charles and Erik rise simultaneously, each looking at the king and not the other. The smug aura surrounding the king makes Erik wary – something must have gone his way and somehow Erik doubts it was the performance of last night, which, while exciting, was conducted in complete darkness, thus restricting the spy to aural impressions.

“I fear I bring grave news,” the king says. He stares at Charles throughout, as though gauging his response before he even speaks. “It is a little premature to announce, but I trust your discretion and you both should be the first to know.

“I have received news from our ambassador in Ormica last night. Genosha is at war. Therefore, as of this morrow, we are under martial law.”

Erik has no time whatsoever to gather his wits, even though the consequences are painting themselves clear across his consciousness. Martial law. Curfew. Rations. Severe punishments for misdeeds. He needs to return to his office; there will be a number of sentences that would require revising, men who need to be kept off the streets or on the front lines. He has no time for breakfast.

Then something else occurs to him.

“As I’m sure Erik will inform you, Your Highness, having claimed a prisoner as your property, you are responsible for delivering him to the front lines, so that he may redeem himself fighting for Genosha. Should Alex Summers fail to report to the military command by noon tomorrow, you will be arrested and tried in his place.”

Charles doesn’t react visibly. Neither does Erik. He doesn’t make a move other than to bow in acknowledgement of the king’s words. Unfortunately, he can’t dispute them. For all that he dislikes the king and hates politics, this is a masterful strike: martial law means that all communications are controlled by the military and thus the king. The ether must be silent, allowing only for the most urgent messages to pass – an open wave, targeting no particular ship, would never be allowed, and to send a message to a ship which has taken to the skies Charles would require to know her passcodes, which he would only know if he was a part of her crew. Quite ingenious, really.

“Of course,” the king continues, “I’m sure you’re aware that an arrangement can be made for your unfortunate situation.”

Ingenious, Erik thinks again, and convenient.

“I flatter myself that I’m an optimist, Sebastian,” Charles says with a small smile. “I believe I have over twenty-four hours to find Alex and bring him here.”

“Be my guest. Good day to you,” the king tells them both. He departs in a flurry of robes, with the aura of smugness paints him into a haze so thick Erik can’t see his head, leaving them in silence over the half-finished breakfast.

“Well, I can’t say this is a surprise.” Charles picks up his cup and reaches for a sweet bread roll. “I was hoping for something less pretentious, but I imagine Sebastian can’t divorce himself from theatrics.”

“You seem awfully calm, for a man who is due to be arrested soon,” Erik says, already trying to remember the rumours of the past weeks. Was there a war on the horizon? They were readying the armada, but most of the ships called into service are designed to navigate the seas, not the land, and Ormica has neither ports nor waters.

Charles scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling, I won’t be arrested.”

“Will you surrender the music box, then?”

Charles smiles. He holds out his hand over the table, and cups Erik’s face, stroking his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “I don’t want you to worry,” he says, when Erik turns into the caress and kisses his palm. “I knew what I was risking when I stepped forth for Alex.”

“Did you? I can’t help feeling your idea of risk is very different from mine.”

“Perhaps it is. Even so.” He hesitates briefly, as though the words are a long time coming and yet feel too fresh to be spoken. “I was happy to have met you. I want you to remember that.”

“You’re about to do something tremendously idiotic, are you not?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

Erik closes his eyes. “Tomorrow at noon I will summon His Majesty’s police to arrest you, unless Alex Summers makes an appearance or the king himself declares you free to depart. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I will have additional guards shadowing you from here on. You will not set foot outside this room without an escort of men I have hand-picked. The martial law will allow no vessel to sail over the city, or it will be destroyed. You can’t escape.”

“I know.” Charles smiles and sips his coffee. He stares out, over the walls, where just enough of the sea is visible to make Erik’s heart ache.

“Charles…”

“Let’s not talk about this, my friend.”

Erik, much as it pains him, obliges him. He circles the table, letting his robes fall open as he walks, despite the threat of the cold air. He climbs onto Charles’ chair, bracketing Charles’ thighs with his and leans in to kiss the flavour of coffee out of his mouth. He doesn’t voice the words crowding his mind. It would be redundant. Charles knows what Erik wants him to do, and arguing about it won’t make any difference; he’s tried enough times. Instead, he has this, now, while there’s still time.

*****

The morning arrives much too soon for Erik’s liking. He lies still in bed, sleepless, as the sky begins to colour, listening to Charles’ languid breaths. He hasn’t contacted anyone throughout the day. He hasn’t spoken with anyone, sans Erik. He spent the evening being quite loud, but if that was an attempt at communication, Erik thinks, and if thoughts could be dry, his would be a desert storm, then he has abstained from companionship far longer than he’d previously thought.

Charles sleeps on his stomach, with one hand tucked underneath his cheek, the other flung to the edge of the bed. Erik turns onto his side, to watch the fine hair on his forearm flutter with every breath. 

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?” he asks. 

A lock of hair falls across Charles’ forehead just as it wrinkles in something remarkably like annoyance. He must be dreaming, Erik thinks. His cheek nuzzles into the pillowcase and a sigh escapes his mouth, a wet, slippery sound glistening with saliva.

Erik closes his eyes and shudders. He is only a man, he thinks with some irritation. When he opens his eyes again, the room is filled with the promise of light and Charles is blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks around a yawn. The covers pull around his chest. Erik can feel the bed depress where Charles digs his heel into the mattress, to stretch his limbs. He lets the gravity shift him into the depression, until he is occupying the same space Charles is.

“Yes, thank you,” Erik says softly. “I enjoyed waking up, though.”

“You say the loveliest things, darling.”

*****

Erik has taken every precaution he could think of. After the martial law was announced to the general population he had men with crossbows stationed in the courtyard, positioned so that they can observe Charles’ window at all times. There are guards patrolling the palace, with two standing to attention in the corridor where both their rooms are, making sure that no one who isn’t in the king’s employ knocks on either door.

“Really, what must you think of me,” Charles says. He is staring down onto the courtyard, with his elbows on the railing of the balcony. “Have they eaten? I would hate for the poor fellows to be stranded on guard duty without having eaten first, especially when I seem to spend most of my time with a glass of wine in my hand.” He does. There is a glass in his hand right now, filled with ruby liquor.

“The guards are breakfasting shortly before they go on duty and dine immediately afterwards, you need not worry for their stomachs.”

“That settles my conscience.” Charles smiles at nothing in particular and waves a hand in a move all royals acquire at an early age – the gracious tilt of palm towards the subject, an acknowledgement and a show of accepting the fealty. Erik hates that gesture. Has hated it throughout his childhood and now that most of the royals are subject to him (his judgement, in truth, but he is the embodiment of the country’s law, and unlike the law he has the will to act), he hates it even more.

“Charles…”

“Dearest,” Charles says and sets his glass aside. “I love you.”

Erik finds that the king and the guards have instantly evaporated from his mind, leaving behind naught but blinding light.

“… as much as it is possible to love a man whom one has known for a matter of days and in circumstances, which rather negate the meeting of equals, naturally.” Charles toys with the rim of the glass scooping the drop of wine caught on the edge with the tip of his finger. “I can’t help but wish there were no politics between us, no king to look up to in fear. We are the same, you and I, are we not? Once we are stripped of the games we must play, we are the same.”

“No,” Erik says. “I don’t believe we are.”

He takes his leave the moment the words leave his mouth. He flees would be more accurate a description. He is far too old to be flustered like a schoolboy, he thinks, striding through the palace, blind to its splendour. He is the judge. The thought that he is like anybody is preposterous. More than preposterous. Even Moira, his closest confidant and only friend, she is not like him. Her parents were of noble blood; a minor line, admittedly, but noble all the same. She was brought up as a lady, she and most other children in the academy.

Erik thinks of the long, lonely years of rejecting all overtures of forced fondness the aristocracy is so fond of. He thinks of cold nights at the dormitories, of schooling and more schooling, until he could only think in paragraphs and laws. He thinks of the children of nobility he got to know over the years, of the mindless order their minds are forced into, of etiquette and formality when none should be required. Then he thinks of the sea and the waves crashing before the Beast, of the spray of water and the moon shining his way, as he navigates among the wraiths; he thinks of the sky-pirates’ ships, sailing through the aurora with their wings spread wide, so as to catch the most of it.

He finds himself in the far wing of the palace, with little memory of how he got there. The clock on the wall tells him he’s been wandering for the better part of an hour, mindless of the time or space, which is perhaps not so surprising when he takes into account that the last person to tell him he was loved was his mother, twenty-two years previously.

There is a painting on the opposite wall, away from the midday sun, but nonetheless brightly lit. Erik walks towards it slowly, hypnotised by the vision. It is a ship of the old days, when the only way to travel was by water rather than the sky, fighting a storm. The painting is dark, and the only light is the single break in the clouds, which is ominous rather than comforting, as from it spills not light but rather fire, which skims the edges of the waves and the foam that threatens to swallow up the ship. There is beauty and terror there; certainly terror is what the crew should be feeling, when the elements tear at their vessel, but somehow Erik doesn’t think so. The figures are too small for their emotion to be apparent, but they are all working, to a man, heedless of the hurricane, because the roar of the sea is in their blood and even its displeasure is familiar as the touch of the lover’s hand. Erik smiles. He will commission a copy of the painting, when this insanity is done.

He must go to Charles now, he thinks. It is inconsiderate to walk out on a man after such a confession, and Erik is anything but. Before he can step away from the painting, however, there are footsteps behind him, measured and dignified; a clink of metal heel followed by a soft press of hard leather against the marble. A woman’s footsteps. He turns to find the duchess, dressed as is her custom, in icy white.

“Erik,” she says, indicating with a small, foreign smile she will not insist on formality.

“Emma.” Her name, like most others, is far easier to say than the king’s.

“I’ve seen you admire this painting before.”

“I wasn’t aware I was being followed throughout my visits to the palace.”

“Sebastian is unfortunately very correct in his assessment of you. You are very innocent.” Emma folds her hands on the fold of her dress and sighs. “He is also very zealous in his pursuits. Charles’ defiance will not sit well with him and if you aren’t careful, you will end up punished for it.”

“I serve the law, Emma. The king will not find a fault in my actions.”

“He will find many faults in your actions. Nothing but faults, I fear.”

“What are you saying? That I should go against what the law requires me to do?”

“No, of course not.” She scrutinises the painting rather than look at Erik. “The king doesn’t view the law as you do. To him it is a tool, not a master.”

Erik doesn’t quite snort, but the noise he makes is far from complimentary. Of course he realises as much. That is the beauty, the purpose of his profession: that there is a person of high enough standing to guard the law from those who’d use it to their advantage.

“Our ambassador returns from Ormica tonight,” Emma says lightly. “Perhaps he will be able to explain why his negotiations failed so utterly. I haven’t expected him to fail; he is a very competent man. Not that he’d need to be, with the demands uttered by either side should have been easy to meet and were, up until last night. We are far too powerful for Ormica to risk war with us.” She shoots him a glance which instantly freezes all attempts at deciphering her words. “Oh, and the duke is dead,” she adds as an afterthought.

It takes a moment for the information to take hold. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve just been there to see him. He is, unfortunately, dead. Sebastian must be very displeased by his death. Such a waste of potential.” She sounds almost sorry as she says it. Erik doesn’t register anything but the naked words. He turns on his heel and walks back the way he came, where Charles will surely be waiting, with an apologetic grin and a game of Backgammon laid out on the table.

It would be unbecoming of Erik’s station to say he felt something die within him when he stormed into the apartments, to find Charles lying on his side on the floor, pale and unmoving. His hair is in no better condition than it has been when Erik left, falling over his forehead in a tangle of locks. His bright eyes are open and fixed on an invisible point just overt the carpet, soaked through with wine. Erik forces himself to look around for the source of the spill and finds an open bottle on the table. It lies on the side and the wine bleeds from its neck, splashing against the floor, not far from Charles’ hand.

The moonstone beacon lies by his side, half-submerged in the red liquid. Erik stares at the fine metalwork. The moonstone is gone, he thinks numbly. Gone. He bends to retrieve the beacon and wipes it clean with his sleeve. Not gone, he notices immediately: the craftsman who designed the beacon turned it into a clock of sorts, reflecting the phases of the moon. It is an expensive, useless trinket to decorate a possession of a man with more morals than self-preservation instinct.

“I’m sorry, Your Honour; we heard only enough noise to suggest anger, and before we thought to check, he was dead,” the guard tells him. What little of his face is visible is pale. Clearly, the king had impressed upon him the importance of keeping the duke whole for interrogation.

“Where’s the physician?”

The guard startles. “I’m sorry?”

“The physician, who pronounced the duke dead. Where is he?”

“I did it, sir.” Another guard steps forth. “I know a little about medicine, sir, my father—“

“Words cannot describe how very uninterested I am in your family history, right now. You will go and find me a master physician, one who will be willing to stake his life on pronouncing the duke dead. Then, when one is found and attests, you will assist him in making sure the body is ready for the funeral. Understood?”

The news must have travelled further than Erik would have liked, because the chastised man looks down not in resentment and shame, but rather compassion. He has seen them together, Erik realises, not perhaps in a situation indicating they knew each other intimately, but they spent enough of the days chatting like old friends to give the impression of closeness. These guards are men alongside whom Erik trained at one point – the position of the executioner requires excellent physical condition, and so the candidates for the office of the judge are first incorporated into the royal guard, before the presiding judge makes his or her final selection – so he knows that he best of them rival him in acumen.

“As you wish, sir,” the guard says, quietly, and departs. Erik stands there for a few moments more, gazing down at the still body on the floor.

He turns on his heel and marches straight out of the room, out of the palace and into the bustling square outside. People bump into him as he walks – he has foregone his regalia the past few days, and without the helmet it could be that he is not readily recognised. He makes few public appearances bare-headed, so that he has no one to blame if an over-eager street vendor tumbles up to him with a grin too wide for his sweaty face and offers him something with implied meat in it, which Erik wouldn’t eat if he had been starving for days.

“I must decline,” he says firmly, moving the man aside and striding away as fast as dignity allows. The smell wafting from the man’s tray is unbelievable, and now that Erik’s stomach is hollow and queasy, he worries he will heave sooner rather than later.

There is only one reason for Charles to have died so suddenly, when he was in such good shape just hours previously. He has been poisoned, of that Erik is certain. The poison was, more likely than not – nay, Erik thinks with the slightest smirk curving his lips, the poison was certainly self-administered. The king would not harm the duke before he got his music box, and likely not even then, if the tales of encryption were true.

… which, to be quite honest, doesn’t sit so well with him, either. Now that the deed was done Erik can admit, if only to himself, that he would not have considered it high treason if he turned a blind eye to Charles escaping the king’s clutches. Maybe.

Everything Charles told him seems like a fantasy, too unreal to be true, but Charles believed his own words. Maybe there is such a weapon and maybe Brian Xavier discovered how to construct it. Except it is lost now – with Charles gone, it is likely that the box will never be found, and if the cryptographer was competent enough, the finder might never realise there was an inscription within. Not with Charles’ death.

Erik all but runs into his office and busies himself with the cases he has neglected over the course of the past days. There are many to occupy his time, what with the war’s beginning and the martial law. The first person who dares to interrupt is Moira, who once again proves her worth when she walks in without knocking and digs her slender fingers into Erik’s shoulder without saying a word. He covers her small hand with his, feeling callouses and scars there, and likewise says nothing, though his throat is seizing and his heart – well, the less said about his heart the better. The pen in his other hand stills, and it is a good thing, as his vision is so blurry he can’t see a single word on the parchment.

“You are in for a busy month,” he says a few minutes later, during which Moira neither moves nor speaks, and Erik is so still only his heart is trembling. Charles is dead, he tells himself, believing it less and less with every passing second. “The war is upon us and I fear the king will want to execute quite a few adventurers.”

“If you send them to the stone, I will execute them.”

Erik closes his eyes. It is as close to open declaration of hostility towards the king as one can reasonably display, and he appreciates Moira’s courage in the matter. Not many would dare to speak their mind, even in such a candid manner. “Thank you.”

She takes her hand back and withdraws, until she is once more standing in front of the desk, with her head held high and her plain, black uniform spotless. “I’m ready, sir,” she says, just as the door opens.

It is the guard from earlier, and following him is the king’s personal physician.

“Your Honour,” the latter says with a reverent bow.

“Doctor. What news do you have for me?”

The man inclines his dark head and pulls out a notebook from the inside pocket of his coat. “The duke is dead, sir. I have cut him open to make sure, as the law demands, and I found him to be lacking all vital signs.”

Erik allows himself five seconds to close his eyes and weather the waves of grief which hits him full on, stealing away his breath and his reason. He hides the fact by bowing his head and shuffling through the papers on his desk, until his fingertips, equipped with more common sense than his brain, tell him he is holding a parchment on which a noble might give an official statement.

“Very well, then,” he says firmly. “Do take a seat and prepare your notes. I will require a brief summary of the autopsy you conducted and your findings. You will remain to bear witness,” he tells the guard. “Lady MacTaggart, you are dismissed. I will send for you when your services are required.”

“As you wish, sir,” she says and departs.

Erik pulls the inkwell closer and begins to write down the words the physician is dictating to him, one by one, forcing the letters to remain nothing but senseless marks on the page, for fear of perceiving their meaning. The physician notes the scars littering the duke’s skin (irrelevant, so Erik interrupts, but inwardly he recalls each one and its particular texture on his tongue), the size and shape of his heart and the state of his lungs.

“He died by poison, sir. I believe I could conclusively prove what poison was used, if you require the information.”

“I do not. It’s quite enough for me that he is dead and that he was not coerced into taking his life.” Except, even as he says the words, he knows them to be a lie. Charles was coerced, by the king. There was no way he would have tried to commit suicide if he wasn’t under duress.

The king must pay, Erik thinks, and for a moment he can see the world around him burn.

“You will sign this,” he tells the physician. “Your title, name and the imprint of your beacon upon the seal.” The physician does. As does the witnessing guard. Erik slides down in his chair and watches the ceiling as the ink on the parchment dries, the very same parchment which proclaims Charles officially and irrevocably dead. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Certainly, he shouldn’t feel the mere presence of the piece of vellum as keenly as he does.

*****

It is only several minutes before sundown that the guard returns. He should be off-duty by now, given that he was stationed at the palace in the early morning, yet he knocks on Erik’s door with no small amount of trepidation, evident in the way he holds himself.

“Sir, the duke is laid out in the Sunset Room in the palace,” he says. “The funeral is to be held promptly, and I thought – I thought you might want to know.”

Erik stares, until such a time comes when he figures out where he has abandoned his mental faculties. He needs them back. He can’t function like this, with half of his mind busy generating meaningless noise. “Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate it.”

“It was no trouble, sir. Have a good night.” The guard touches the pads of his fingers to the brim of his helmet and stands to attention while Erik assembles his clothing. The cloak is heavy on his shoulder, but the thought that he will be seeing Charles for the last time is heavier still. The noise in his head culls the emotions with the efficiency of a fire in a field of wheat at the height of summer. The journey through the square is much swifter, with the full regalia of the judge forcing their way through the crowds, dragging Erik behind them.

“His Majesty said the funeral will be simple,” the guard says. His face is a blank to Erik, a flesh-coloured oval with name and no features whatsoever. The whole world is going blank before his very eyes. He has gone through this before, he recalls in terror, a long time ago, once upon a time, when the world wasn’t quite so real, and then, like now, the one he mourned has been stolen from him. “His Highness is to be given full honours, as one of the royal blood, and he will be laid to rest in the crypt in the Temple, where his father is also buried.”

Erik nods. The guard says nothing else, until he is nodding his head at the two standing to attention outside the door to the Sunset Room. They salute and hold the door open for Erik to enter.

“The ceremony is to begin in an hour, sir,” one of them tells him. “People will be gathering before that.”

“Thank you,” Erik says as the door closes. He is alone in the empty room, alone but for the wooden box in the middle. It feels like a tomb already, with the black marble walls and cast iron decorating the windows. The room is enormous – many a royal has begun his or her final journey in this room, and normally there would be many people joining them. Not so now. Erik approaches the coffin in a daze, resting his gloved hands on the edge. 

Charles looks peaceful. His hands are folded and there is a small smile on his red mouth, making him appear asleep, rather than dead. He is once again clad entirely in black, an odd choice for a funeral suit, but he looks no less handsome for it, even if the deathly pallor is brought out by the contrast. The freckles on his nose are dimmed, likely hidden by some powder. Erik wishes he could wipe it off, that he could see Charles one last time as he remembers him, but time is trickling through his fingers and he can’t leave a suggestion that he is affected. Behind his back the sun is diving for the horizon at double the usual speed and the shadows creep across the floor. He has minutes, at most. 

He will miss Charles dearly. He will miss him doubly for having barely known him, for having lost the chance to know him.

One last time, he thinks and the thought seems to make no sense, even to him, until he realises he is bowed over the coffin. He is a breath away from kissing Charles, and he shouldn’t, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to move away. Charles’ lips feel papery and cold; he regrets the kiss immediately. He doesn’t want to remember him that way, not when he still feels their touch in the morning light, warmed by tea and sun. Now there’s a hollow there, one he will never fill if he lives to be a hundred.

Erik leaves the room without a backward glance, blind to the blank faces and the vacant stares that follow his departure. Nothing they say makes it past the noise which fills the back of his mind. He can only hope that someday the noise will die down and he will be able to fill what he now realises has been empty for most of his life.


	4. the steel plume

Erik intends to sleep in his office. He is dimly aware of the funeral starting, somewhere in the depths of the palace, and he doesn’t regret ignoring the event. He’s made his farewells; he doesn’t ache for the formal send-off. It will be a drag, certainly. Few nobles will show up, because Charles – the Duke of Westchester – has been gone for so long the name Xavier has fallen out of prominence and thus to a less informed person there is little to be gained by faking an interest. They will be trying to ascertain the mood of the king and whether his favour depended on them either badmouthing or praising the departed, with all the subtlety of a colony of beached polar whales. Erik cares little for interacting with giant, helpless, mindless creatures, cast out of their element like that.

Unfortunately, just as he knows the funeral is about to start, he is faced with a visitor who insists on accompanying him to the Sunset Room, and who treats refusal as a prelude to consent. Erik rolls his eyes, but the king’s valet will not be deterred; eventually he lays down the fight, dons the helmet and the cape and goes.

“You Honour,” the king says upon seeing him. “We have been waiting for you.”

“I wasn’t aware my presence was required.” Erik takes a place behind the king, carefully arranging himself so that his view of the coffin is obscured by heads and headgear. 

“Come now, didn’t you want to say farewell to the good duke?” The king is baring all his teeth in a grin rather out of place at a funeral. The good humour is puzzling, considering what the occasion means for the king’s plans.

“I said all the goodbyes I require,” Erik says in reply, inclining his head.

“No doubt.” The king dismisses him and turns to the priest, who begins a customary prayer for the deceased. Erik watches the back of the king’s head, marvelling at the lack of anger. He expected a storm to follow, not contentment. Charles is dead, meaning his father’s research is out of grasp, possibly forever. Why would the king not be upset?

A minor commotion occurs at the door. Erik doesn’t turn, but his curiosity is nonetheless assuaged when a snow-white dress and golden blond hair float into his field of vision. The duchess rests a hand on the king’s shoulder and whispers in his ear. Erik hears the king breathe out a single word of praise in reply.

Really, how can he be so pleased, Erik thinks, gritting his teeth, when Charles is dead, when Charles’ remains are lying right there, clutching all his secrets in a death grip?

The king has a smile on his face, Erik notes. How can he have a smile on his face?

Unless he somehow managed to circumvent the problem of Charles’ codes, in which case he may already have the weapon at his disposal. No, that is impossible. Even factoring in Charles’ considerable arrogance, he was an extraordinarily smart man; the code must be exceedingly difficult to break, even if the music box is found, and Erik puts very little stock in the king’s ability to remain clandestine. If he found something he was looking for, there would have been a national holiday.

Still, the whole line of thought is ridiculous. They are at the outbreak of a war. There is no time to worry about boxes and mysteries when martial law requires everyone, the king included, to keep their heads down and do nothing but work towards the speedy resolution of the conflict. Ormica is a small country, with little army or fleet, but one thing they are not lacking in are intelligent strategists. Given enough time, they could certainly come up with enough defiance, even if they are reduced to guerrilla warfare, to cause Genosha serious trouble.

Unless… Erik allows his mind to wander. Ormica is a small enough country that they seem like an easy target, but there is a reason they have remained small and independent all this time. The last country which declared war on them had been soundly defeated and even now, thirty years later, owes them fealty. There is no way the king is unaware of the fact. There is also, to the best of Erik’s knowledge, no reason to be at war. Meaning, sometime in the last year a major incident must have occurred. How has he not known?

He hates holes in intelligence. They make him uneasy.

He excuses himself as soon as he is able. No one tries to stop him.

*****

Navigating the palace is not easy, but Erik has been doing it for the past ten years. He slips past the guards, obligatory in the times of war. Fortunately, having abandoned his official regalia, he blends in with the servants, as much as he can ever blend in anywhere. He would withstand no scrutiny whatsoever, but for someone not paying attention he would be yet another tall man in a black suit, the likes of whom wandered the corridors with brooms or trays, even at this hour.

He slips into the king’s private office, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The desk is strewn with papers of all kinds. There are seals and wax lying about, strings and books. Beneath them all there is a map. Erik moves the parchments aside. The map shows Ormica and the one beneath it shows her capital city, which immediately highlights problem: Erik is not at home with cartography. He can read a map well enough to get home on a foggy night, but faced with anything more complex than streets and buildings, he is inevitably lost. Yet this map draws his attention. Mostly, it is the little red blobs on certain crossings that do it. Erik cannot, for the life of him, remember whether any map he has ever seen made use of such symbols, because although he has visited the capital of Ormica only once, he is certain there were very few mushrooms growing in the streets. He files the mystery away, for later discovery.

On the whole the room is, no doubt, the office of a king ready for war. Erik scans a few letters, learning little but the reports on the state of the troops. No success. He is all but given up on the correspondence when he notices familiar scratches on the wood of the desk. His own bears similar marks, from the countless times he has forgotten to deactivate the mechanical spy. The king is bound to use them; they are much more reliable than paper. If there is an answer, it has to be recorded.

With that thought in mind, Erik begins to peruse the cupboards and cabinets, until finally he finds one which requires a key to open. Luckily, there is no mind so big it will remember everything, and Erik finds the key in a drawer. Hooray for easy espionage, Erik thinks with a grin.

Inside the cupboard there is a metallic box and inside the box, on a satin pillow, there is a bird with onyx encrusted feathers. It is only a little smaller than a pigeon, ostentatious and flashy: if it wasn’t meant for espionage, Erik thinks, it would surely be the size and colour of a preening peacock. Even though it is fairly inconspicuous, when activated, it will surely greet the owner with an ominous crow. 

It has been custom-made, but the manual, tucked into the back of the cabinet, reveals that the custom detailing extends only as far as the casing and the feathers. It is of course couched in babble which Erik hardly understands, but he understands enough to know that the list of the device’s features is short and to the point. Most importantly, the chapter on security is brief and understandable: this is a creature designed to relay secret messages between the king and a person of his choosing, and to activate it one requires to be in possession of a relevant beacon.

Erik smiles at the unimpressed face of the bird. He wraps it in a shawl he finds in the corner of the room and makes his way to the Room of Memory. He may not have the beacon to activate it, but he does have access to the registry of all the beacons manufactured for the nobles of Genosha and their allies; if there is evidence recorded in the bird, he will have it.

The streets are silent; it is nearly midnight. Erik slips into the Room of Memory and unwraps the machine. It takes moments. Even less. The crow stirs and, as Erik thought, lets out a dull croak. Then it begins to speak, obeying the command the flashing lights utter into its tiny brain.

“There is enough to make cause, then,” says the voice of the king. “They are immaterial. Find me something. Anything.”

The previous message, recorded in the voice of the ambassador, follows: “Sire, they agree to your every demand. They will pay anything to stave off the fires. I have no cause to demand more.”

It’s enough. Erik returns to the palace and sneaks the bird back into its cabinet, as though he’s in a trance.

This is proof. This is all the proof he needs that… 

Well, that what, really?

He collapses into his chair and hides his head in his hands. He now has tangible proof that the war has been engineered, and by the sound of it, it has been engineered very recently. If the king is resorting to terrorism, because what else could the talk of fires and the strange markings on the map be, to get hundreds of soldiers to die needlessly, then he must have been in a hurry. The only reason to be in a hurry at the moment is Charles and his mysterious weapon of mass destruction. One fact interferes with the evidence, however, and that is the fact that Charles is dead, and thus immune to threats of violence and patriotism. Truth, he died only after the war has been declared; shouldn’t it mean the effort will be halted?

The smug superiority of the king indicates no, but then again he has never been likely to give up plans once they were in motion. Beginning a pointless war is a touch over the top, Erik thinks, and resolves to fix the matters in the morning.

He would have slept soundly that night, had he slept, were it not for one speck of doubt, which plagues his mind and allows him no rest. He isn’t sure what brought it on – certainly he has nothing to go on, except the fact that Charles’ death is the last thing the king would want and the king is accustomed to getting his way. There is little chance the suite wouldn’t have been searched for poison prior to Charles’ moving in, or that the servants in attendance wouldn’t have been screened to the utmost degree. Charles would have to have been desperate indeed to seek alternative options. He was a royal after all; throwing himself out of a window is something the plebeians do. A duke can turn to poison, or to throwing himself on his sword, though the latter is more a custom of military men. No, Charles would have chosen poison, if it came to that. 

The trouble is that Erik is equally sure Charles would have chosen life, unless he was in a corner, nay – a weighed-down barrel, nailed shut and thrown over the waterfall. What were the chances that a man as clever, as bright as Charles killed himself to spite a king?

Erik certainly wouldn’t.

He startles himself out of the doze he has fallen into shortly before dawn, when it was already light. He knows he slept, because the light is no longer a mere promise of a day, but rather a full-blown morning, cold, as it is November, but day nonetheless. The clock tells him he slept for three hours at least.

The mechanical bird is perched on the edge of his desk.

Erik rubs the sleep out of his eyes. The bird is still there. The craftsman’s sense of humour added mannerisms not unlike those of real birds, and so the mechanism is preening itself, even though the steel feathers don’t need such attention.

“The duke of Westchester is in the palace dungeons,” the bird says in a tinny, mechanical voice when it notices Erik is no longer sleeping.

Well, Erik thinks, giving momentarily to smugness. He has been right. Charles isn’t dead, unless there are ways of hiding information inside one’s body, which would be grossly impractical and dangerous. But no, the box is supposed to be heavy, and thus impossible to hide under one’s skin.

Charles is alive, his heart sings. Alive and in the dungeon, says the pragmatic part of him, the one which spent ten years memorising history and family colligations of royalty, where there are the dark-clad men and women, whose only work is to draw a confession out of a man, through whatever means.

Erik leans back in his chair and studies the bird, which persists in its needless grooming. Half of him wants to rush and confirm the news with his own eyes (there is even a small part of him that wants to envelop Charles in his arms and weep with joy, but that part must remain buried and hidden, perhaps forever). The other half… waits.

It waits a little longer. Then, when the wait starts feeling unbearable, Erik makes himself wait a few minutes more, though everything he is rebels, demanding to raise up and put a stop to it, to the farcical war, to whatever is being done to Charles while he sits here, deliberating.

Erik would have done so, without hesitation, but right now he is more than that. He is the judge and rashness is not an option.

The evidence is the problem. Erik has nothing but what he inferred from the duchess’ cool comments (which she would deny with ease, in the event the hints were not Erik’s imagination), what little suggestion there was in the letters (his profession demands of him to be capable of reading between the lines and into the shape of things; others don’t necessarily possess the same skill, thus the letters are feeble as evidence). Finally, he has the succinct testimony of the king’s messenger, for however little that counts. Put simply, Erik has plenty to make the accusation, but little to make it stick.

He’s never been plagued by doubts before. He knows the law and he knows right from wrong, which is how he was chosen for the position in the first place. It hasn’t been a problem until now, because if Erik was to be fully rational, disregarding his emotional response and his doubts about the morality of the individuals involved, about the proceedings, then the king is _right_. Genosha is not a big country; they need every advantage they can get. The weapon – if it is everything Charles promises it is – can give them victory, victory so unquestionable they would rule the skies, the seas and the lands.

Erik would see his duties bloated into a cathedral of legal proceedings; he’d have to oversee millions, hundreds of millions. The police force would need to be vast, to keep such an empire in check, and of that it would become an empire Erik has no doubt. The king is ambitious and artful. He will not be content with the knowledge that the conquest is possible, let alone that Genosha is safe.

The question, Erik thinks wryly, thus becomes whether Erik trusts the king with such an opportunity.

The fact that he is slipping in through the kitchen door of the palace as the question becomes fully formed in his mind answers it conclusively.

It is still early enough that only those who need to be at their posts are present, and Erik finds avoiding the servants easy. It doesn’t matter if he is seen, but he’d rather not be, yet he makes no effort to conceal himself, because he has the right to be here, striding through the corridors at the insanely early hour. All the same, it would be safer if he wasn’t seen just yet, so when a couple of guards turn the corner ahead, Erik slips into the shadows of the stairs. Fortunately, they only appear when the time is most fortunate – those stairs hide one of the passages to the dungeons that very few people know about. Erik opens the narrow, wooden door and, once inside, gropes the stone wall on his left. After half a minute of searching he finds the niche in which the door handle is concealed. Thankfully, the architect had found a lock redundant, when the door itself was so hidden, and so Erik, after half-tumbling down the three storeys of a narrow staircase, is able to enter the dungeon far from the main stairs and without anyone being the wiser.

It swiftly turns out to have been a brilliant move, as, when he goes to investigate the other way in, he finds a small squad posted at every landing; he doesn’t recognise the men, but he does recognise their uniforms. They are His Majesty’s soldiers, not the police. Erik’s blood doesn’t run cold, but for once he feels unsafe in his own kingdom. The army is subject to his law, too, but it is only when he is given a man to prosecute. These men had no obligation to let him through, even though by rights and laws he should have access to every corner of the palace, the capitol city and the country. 

Is it treachery, to invade one’s own kingdom? Erik promises he will give the matter due consideration.

He retreats from the entrance and goes the other way, where he knows – he fears – he will find Charles. He knows what’s waiting where he’s going, though he had no dealings with these parts of the dungeon. As far as he is aware, and in these matters his awareness has quite the span, very few prisoners deserved the full attention of the torturers in the past ten years and most of them have been pirates.

In fact, Erik thinks wryly, the practices have become so scorned that there is only one torturer on active duty, and he remembers the times when the current king would escape his royal mother and run around the castle without his clothes on, shrieking murder when the maids would force him into a bath. Erik is fond of the man – he has the best stories to tell.

It is with a sense of dread that he places the dull sound assaulting his ears: it is a strike of a whip against skin. It lacks a coherent rhythm, indicating that the hand wielding the whip has doubts about the proceedings, but the strikes keep coming, and when he gets close enough he can make out the echo that accompanies them – a gasp of air forced out of a man’s lungs through clenched teeth. Erik bites his lip and casts a look over his shoulder, to make sure there are no guards to force him back, but he is alone.

It would be too much to say that he is prepared for the sight that greets him when he works up the courage, though his training has been extensive and thorough. In his defence, he isn’t the only one – the torturer has the most peculiar expression on his face, a mix of fear and worry, and whenever the whip makes contact he winces, even though it is not his own flesh he is tormenting. 

In contrast, Charles is calm. There is blood seeping out of the welts on his back and more than one bruise on his pale chest, but he stares ahead hardly even wincing when he is hit; it is only the tight set of his jaw that reveals the pain he’s in. Erik thinks there might still be traces of the poison in his system, because his eyes are hazy and the focus in them, so natural even when they are dilated in lust, seems forced.

“I dearly hope this isn’t the crux of your plan, Sebastian,” Charles says unexpectedly. Erik starts when something stirs against the wall of the dungeon he cannot see. He hears a man’s footsteps and the rustle of heavy fabrics and he knows the king is there.

“Why would you say such a thing?” the king asks mildly. Erik knows him enough to recognise masked anger.

“Nothing, really; it’s just that curiosity is eating me alive and I worry that Mister Hendry’s arm is getting tired.”

Erik sees the torturer start at hearing his name mentioned.

“You seem unfairly confident, for a man in your position,” the king says, radiating unearthly calm, the likes of which immediately precede the storm. Erik hears a slink of metal and a gleam, before he realises the king is holding up a sword.

Charles eyes it with trepidation. He understands, in that short moment, that a line has been crossed and the king has had enough waiting. “What happened to you, Sebastian?” he asks quietly, as Mister Hendry withdraws into the shadows and stands there, shivering. The king waves his hand in his direction and Mr Hendry flees, not even noticing Erik where he is pressed into the crevice of the stone wall.

“I have waited for twenty years,” the king says. “I have been patient. Your father had everything he would have asked for; he had it before he could ask. I have given him time and opportunity. I only asked that he keep his promises and deliver what he worked on.”

Confusion takes up a throne in Erik’s mind. To the best of his knowledge Brian Xavier died over fifteen years ago, why should he be brought up now?

“My father was a patriot, Sebastian. I don’t like the tone you take.”

“You father, darling, was a traitor,” the king says sweetly, resting the tip of the great blade against Charles’ cheek. “He lied to his king. He lied to me.”

“Surely you jest. He was a scientist with an unfortunate overabundance of fashionably late morals.” Charles rattles the chains which hold his wrists together. He is frowning, fighting to stay focussed, or perhaps not – perhaps he is fighting to lose the focus Erik can see returning with each breath. Maybe he doesn’t want to understand what Shaw is telling him, what it sounds like he is telling him.

“You father was a traitor and a coward.”

“He was brave enough to have resisted you,” Charles says and the king strikes him across the face with the flat of the sword. He takes great care with the blow, so that the edge does no harm, but that it is felt all the same. 

“You might want to consider this: I need you to draw me a map and perhaps translate what your father was inconsiderate enough to code. I very much doubt that the original language is dancing, so I don’t think you will need your legs to be of use.” 

The sword slides neatly down Charles’ bruised chest, past the waistband of his trousers, to stop at the thigh, digging lightly into the flesh there. The king’s hands are wrapped around the hilt, applying just enough pressure to tease with the promise of hurt, not applying it just yet. Charles stares at the king with incredulity, like he can’t quite believe this is possible.

“Think very carefully about what you’re about to do, Sebastian,” he says, “Because you will be held accountable for it.”

“Oh, will I?”

“Yes, you will,” Charles says. Erik steps out of the shadows and their eyes meet over the king’s shoulder. Charles smiles, the same lovely smile which had Erik kissing him till he was breathless not two days before, and which even now makes Erik want to cross the distance and claim it with his lips.

The king stiffens and turns. He disguises the unpleasant surprise quickly, but it is still there, lurking under the shadows the poor lighting casts on his face. “Erik,” he says tonelessly, moving the great sword away from Charles. “This is a surprise.”

“I found out about a crime being committed. Surprise.” Erik spreads his palms and resists the urge to grin. In the endeavour he is only moderately successful, as what emerges is a haughty smirk, which may have the same effect a grin would have.

“I thought the soldiers at the door would give you some trouble.”

So the king was thinking he would come and has chosen the army to guard specifically to detain him. It is a troubling thought. “They may not answer to me, but they are still citizens. I hold some sway, whether they are under my command or not.” That, and he knows the palace better than the king does, which isn’t a great surprise. Judges are a naturally curious breed, whereas kings are more suited to suspicion, which is not the same thing.

Charles hangs his head and smiles, as though he isn’t bloodied and bruised, and dependant on the chains to hold him upright.

“Well, what seems to be the trouble, Judge Lehnsherr?” the king asks, resting the tip of the sword against the ground and leaning his weight on the handle.

“To begin with, you have kidnapped a Genoshan lord and had him tortured. I believe that is plenty.”

“I have captured a traitor, under the martial law. Surely, you cannot find fault in that.”

Would only that be true… “My king, you know best that there must be solid evidence for a duke to be placed in suspicion. It must then be brought to me, for review, and it is only after I find it viable that you can see your suspect arrested.”

“The duke you are so fond of defending was attempting to flee Genoshan lands, which, I don’t have to tell you, is a crime in times of war.”

“Ah, but are we at war, my king?” Erik smiles, but this time the smile is not kind. “Has there been a threat uttered by the king of Ormica? Has our land been invaded? In fact, has any of our demands not been met with gracious hospitality, even when it was us who were at fault?”

He is satisfied to have drawn yet another grim scowl on the king’s face. “Are you threatening me?” the king asks, subtly shifting his weight, so that the sword is no longer a crutch but a weapon at ease. Erik holds his ground and lets his gaze dart around for a weapon of his own.

“I wouldn’t presume, Your Majesty.” Really, which one of them was getting threatened here, with the enormous sword firmly set between him and the king and Charles cuffed helplessly to the pillar. “I’m merely trying to make sense of your political movements.”

“Do not presume to understand politics, child. You are as ignorant now as you have been when you were first introduced at court and turned red whenever anyone paid you any attention. Politics is not your game.”

Erik clenches his fists and growls, “I presume to know that forcing a war on a country which means us no harm is far from a political move. How dare you tell me otherwise!”

“Ormica? They are a meaningless speck of dust on the way to a greater world. They have no army and no tactical meaning on their own, which they could be awarded in my empire.”

“You are only a king, sire,” Erik says, looking away from the man and to Charles, and the blood seeping down his chest from the cut on his shoulder. “An empire might be premature.”

“Is there a purpose to your visit, Erik?” the king asks wearily, as though Erik was an errant child, interrupting a business meeting.

“I came for the duke.”

“Obviously.” There’s no way around the fact that the king is leering. “I have noticed you are not exactly seeking my company at the best of times.”

“Sire – you have overstepped your boundaries. You will release the duke into my custody, and you will do so without undue fuss.”

“I have overstepped? I am this close to declaring you a traitor to the crown, my boy. No, the duke will remain right here, until he tells me what I need to know, and then he will die, to ensure I have no more trouble on his account.”

Charles doesn’t react visibly and Erik feels his whole face harden. Even his vision starts going wrong – the dungeon turns bright and brittle, like an incautious word could shatter it. “You are foolish, Your Majesty, if you think I will condone murder of a Genoshan lord, no matter what their crime.”

“Who speaks of murder?” The king shrugs and, almost casually, raises the sword, as though he was a young man and the sword a toy. Since neither is true, Erik is the littlest bit impressed. Even he would struggle to hold up a hunk of metal this heavy in such an effortless manner. “The duke is a traitor to the crown and so he will die, after he redeems himself.”

“Like his father did?” Erik asks quietly. This time he sees Charles start and the king stare.

“You must be joking!” he says, taking an involuntary step back, nearly forgetting about the sword in his hand.

“I’m not. Surely you understand how I could be suspicious, when Charles has died and is now miraculously breathing in your palace dungeon, when your own physician assured me he has cut his dead body open and thus could swear he was dead. Is it what happened to Brian Xavier, too? Was he buried with all the honours he deserved, only to wake a few hours later in here, with his hands bound and blood on his back?” Erik stands straight as a habit, and he cuts an imposing figure. Adding to that the authority of his office and the privileges awarded to him, he cannot fault the king for cowering as he understands that what Erik has come here to do will result in his ruin.

“So you understand politics, then,” the king says with a sneer. “Excellent. I could almost be proud, if it weren’t for the fact that your sense of timing has suffered for the new skill.”

“This isn’t politics, sire. The murder of a duke is tantamount to treason, for which I have every right to demand your head.”

The king’s hands begin to shake. He tightens his grip on the sword as he speaks, “Everything I did made Genosha stronger. Everything.”

“Even the invasion you planned? Blackmailing Ormica’s king while holding the lives of his people hostage?”

The king shakes his head, saddened by the ignorance, presumably. Erik finds it makes him even more angry. “Do let’s continue this another time, shall we? I still have matters to attend to and your idealism is not helping. I honestly thought you would understand that war is a tool of a king, like the executioner is a tool of a judge.”

“If you believe that, my king, then you don’t understand the purpose of the office,” Charles finds it fit to interject.

“This is why your father killed himself, I hope you realise. Like you, he was too busy thinking about the consequences to see the possibility.” The king looks between them, his eyes narrow and condescending. “Guards!” he yells; the word leaves his mouth so quickly that Erik has no time to react before there is a distant thundering of steps.

He could say a hundred things then. He could say, “you will not get away with this,” or he could say, “I will remember this,” or even “you will pay for what you’re doing.” He says none of these things, because at that point in time they all require that he leaves this dungeon having let the king have his way and everything he is rebels at that prospect.

He thinks clearly; there is no sudden flash of light which obscured his vision and his mind. He knows exactly what he’s doing when he lets his hands drop and he steps towards the king, knocking the sword out of his hands and into his own, turning the blade around and bringing it up in a sharp stab. The king stares at him even as his eyes grow hazy with pain. There’s blood seeping through his clothing, staining the sword and the dungeon floor.

When the guards rush in among the clanks of armour and heavy boots, the king is sliding off the blade to land in a heap on the floor. Erik watches him with little to no emotion in his mind or heart. It is only when he raises his gaze to Charles, who stares at him with wide eyes, that he finally feels something, because it’s only then that he realises that he didn’t kill the king because it was his duty to have done so. He has killed the king for Charles and Charles knows this. The brittle quality to his vision dissipates, muting reality into an everyday grey. Erik staggers and throws out a hand to hold himself up against the stone wall.

The captain of the guard takes stock of the situation. Erik feels his gaze on his back and the neatly pressed uniform and red cape covering it. He hears the slide of swords being drawn and pistols cocked. They expect to fight him, even though he no longer holds the sword which killed the king.

“Your Honour,” the captain begins.

“Don’t bother,” Erik tells him. “I have no intention of fighting anyone.” He bends for the sword, ignoring the drawing of breaths and surreptitious movement of feet which fight for purchase on the smooth stone floor, and surrenders it to the nearest guard. “Take this. Unchain the duke and have a physician tend to his wounds. Inform Lady MacTaggart she is to take up the office immediately.”

“Sir,” the captain says, saluting.

Erik wasn’t lying when he told the king that his soldiers would listen to him, even when they weren’t required to. One of them moves to unchain Charles and then Erik loses track of the situation, because he is lead out of the dungeon and into the palace under heavy escort. He is locked up in the very same apartment he was assigned to a few days ago, where the king put him to pry into Charles’ secrets on his behalf.

He falls into the bed and sleeps the day away without dreaming. When he wakes there is a cold meal waiting for him on the bedside table, and next to it a book. He whiles the evening away thumbing through the pages and then he sleeps again, while outside the world reforms itself.

Finally, the following evening, the duchess – now queen – comes to visit him. Her white dress glistens; it is as blinding as the snow, even if it is sometimes orange, when the light from the window catches a hem. She walks in alone, but Erik can hear the sound of heels against marble and knows that there are at least three others waiting for her at the door.

“Erik, my dear,” she begins, making herself comfortable on the sofa. “Did you know, I’d advised Sebastian not to appoint you? I always knew you were going to be a problem. You are far too naïve, far too idealistic. Sebastian was a seasoned politician; he was bound to regret the move. Lo and behold, what a prophet I turned out to be!”

“His death didn’t sadden you overly much.” Erik says. Indeed, the queen looks radiant, especially when she laughs.

“Should it? I am now queen. I have very little to be sad about.”

He can’t help but stare dumbly at her smiling face. “I thought you were at least fond of him.”

“I am. I was. But Sebastian had many failings, not the least of which was being his narrow sight. His obsession with Brian Xavier’s research proves as much.”

Erik stiffens and lets his hands drop, but the queen makes no move to run, when most would. 

“There’s a good reason for that,” she continues. “Charles assures me that the weapon his father invented is extraordinary. Being a woman and a politician rather than a soldier or scientist, the most I know about weapons is this: if you hold it in your hand to strike fear into the hearts of your enemies, you are just as likely to have it used against you. Charles agrees with me.” She watches him through narrowed eyes. “I asked for the music box to be destroyed.”

If Charles wanted the box destroyed, he would have done so a long time ago, Erik thinks. The queen smiles, feigning innocence, and Erik knows this is some game that the politicians like to play over his head, using him as an ignorant piece. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he says.

“It may ease your conscience to know that we are not at war, presently.”

Erik starts. “Excuse me? I had proof—“

Emma’s smile is full of secrets and not a small amount of amusement, though the sliver of regret cannot be Erik’s imagination. “You did. I have, however, spoken to the king of Ormica and, believe it or not, he agreed that a war would be detrimental to both our lands and that the actions of one mad king must not deter us from pursuing a peaceful resolution. He lauds your bravery, by the way – not many would have the courage to stand up to their king like you did.”

“I did my duty as the judge, Your Majesty.”

“Which is something the people of Ormica find hard to understand. I don’t think their monarchs would rest easy knowing there is an office which allows for such a course of action.” The queen stands. “I am grateful to you for the service you rendered to the land of Genosha,” she says formally, as the protocol demands, even though the same protocol demands that the successor of the judge is present to witness. 

The Queen takes the small silver bell she’s been toying with and lets it ring. At the signal the door opens and in strides Moira with the heavy, red cape draped over one elbow, her face partially obscured by the helmet. It is a good look for her, Erik thinks. Her gentle face gains harsh, unforgiving angles with the shadows cast by the helmet, creating the illusion of mercilessness and severity.

“Your Honour,” the queen says. “Erik Lehnsherr has slain His Royal Majesty, Sebastian Shaw. I ask you to pass judgement.”

“I find him guilty, Your Majesty,” Moira says primly. “I find him guilty of having fulfilled his duty as the judge, saving Genosha from a needless war beget by her previous monarch.”

“Then, as queen, allow me to grant you a favour: you have done us a great service, Judge Lehnsherr, with the crime you have committed. The law calls for your death on a pyre, but for a hero that will not do.” She raises a hand in a theatrical gesture, and Erik would roll his eyes but for the fact that the ritual is a boon: it spares him from the pain and indignity of a public trial and execution, so he holds his tongue when, at the queen’s sign, a young boy, clad entirely in white, enters the room, bearing a heavy chalice filled with a sweet-smelling liquid.

“A final gift,” the queen says, “to my most loyal servant.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Erik says. He sits down on the sofa and takes the goblet from the child. The liquid is viscous and red – no doubt thickened with syrup to make the cyanide palatable. He raises it to his lips and drinks without hesitation while the two women watch. There is a flicker of remorse in Moira’s eyes, which is the one thing Erik regrets about his actions. She had been a good friend to him – he could imagine no better, and he repays her by foisting on her the heaviness of the office which demands blood more often than not.

The poison is sweeter than anything he’s ever drunk and that alone makes him want to gag, but it might be that cyanide is bitter enough for his body to reject it at first taste. He forces himself to swallow it down to the very last drop, regardless of what his taste buds suggest.

The child takes the goblet away just as Erik feels his limbs begin to stiffen. His head falls back to the backrest of the chair and lolls to the side. He doesn’t close his eyes, watching the queen and her judge watch him as his breathing slows. The child stands before the queen, nearly invisible against the white of her dress. His contours blur in the fading sunlight, until he shifts and the outline of his dark head is stark against the queen’s snowy white. A speck of light catches in the gem on his throat – a round, pale stone, gleaming rather than shining, encased in steel, with… a copper duckling, paddling across its surface.

Erik feels his eyes widen, because when the boy looks up at his face his eyes are curious and bright, and bluer than the summer sky. Erik can no longer move his head but he strains and turns his gaze to the queen, who returns the look with a small smile. “A gift,” she whispers, “more priceless than I can afford, from a dear friend.”

Erik’s gaze slides from her and back onto the child; the dark-haired, blue-eyed boy, until he, too, disappears in the haze of deathly sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, I admit: there is an epilogue. Theoretically. But it's so bright and shiny that no way in hell it works with the story. :( I'm very sorry.


End file.
